


A Borrowed Voice

by Quantumphysica



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And now Námo wants their souls back..., Angst, But so have his brothers, Cynicism, Even though they are dead, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Maglor has wandered the earth all this time, Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 72,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantumphysica/pseuds/Quantumphysica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young man miraculously survives a car crash that by all means should have killed him… but when he wakes from his coma, he has lost the ability to understand English. He speaks gibberish and writes in meaningless scribbles... or so the doctors think. They don't know the sound of Old Quenya, after all. </p><p>It could have been coincidence that he crosses paths with Maka Smith, speech therapist and oath-bound kinslayer, but then… there is no coincidence where the Valar are concerned. When Námo gives them an unlikely mission, they have no choice but to work together whether they like it or not…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mysterious Effects Of Brain Damage

_Communication… It’s something we take for granted. I certainly never gave it much thought; 17-year-olds generally have better things to do than pondering over the wonders of language. But… well, you think differently about things when they’re suddenly missing. It’s like having lost a limb; you aren’t aware of how much you use it until it’s gone and you’re left to figure out how to cope without it._

………… 

Thomas opened his eyes with a start. The blinding front lights and deafening claxon still echoed through his head, and it took a moment before he realized he wasn’t sitting in his father’s car anymore, ready to be crushed by a truck driving in the wrong lane. He was lying in a hospital bed, attached to machines with electrodes and IV tubes. The only sound he heard was his own breathing, and the quiet beeping of the heart monitor. It didn’t leave much question as to what had happened; they had obviously not been able to evade collision with the ghost driver. How long had he been out? Had he been in a coma? Thomas tried to recall as much details about himself and his life as possible.

_My name is Thomas Ashworth. I am an only child. My parents are divorced. My father’s name is Frank. My mother’s name was Linda. She died of cancer 11 years ago. I’m 17 years old, 18 in October. I’m going to college next year. My zodiac sign is Libra. Timothy Hardwick owes me 5 pounds. I like Mac n’ cheese. Dad was going to take me out to the movies next week. I had an assignment for English literature due Monday._

After a while, Thomas was convinced that he had no memory loss. He could move his limbs, and all of those were present, he could see, hear, and speak, and his mind was –in his opinion- rather clear for someone who had just woken up from a potential coma. He seemed to be surprisingly all right… so why did he feel as if something was completely wrong?

When the doctors came in and excitedly started asking questions, he knew. They spoke to him, but he didn’t understand a word of what they were saying. The language sounded familiar, but all the same he didn’t comprehend it. Slowly, his panic started to rise. Did they even understand him?

“Ma hanyatyen?”

From the way their speech fell silent, he could tell they didn’t. Maybe he could write? After making a scribbling motion with his hand, he was handed the notebook and pen of one of the doctors. He confidently started writing, only to stop when he noticed the printed characters atop the notebook. He couldn’t read them, and their odd, angular shapes didn’t look a thing like the perfectly readable letters he had just penned down. Fear suddenly grabbed him by the throat. Could it be… could it be that he was completely incomprehensible?

 ………… 

“Heca! Eca cenienyallo!”

A bedpan clattered against the wall as a nurse hurried away. She looked scared, Thomas noted with grim satisfaction. He was mad at her. He was mad at everyone. The mere fact that they were all part of a society of people who understood each other made him want to bash their heads in. Mere months ago he had never even imagined being this angry, but now? He had to make-do with picture books for communication, point towards images like a fucking two-year-old to make himself understood. People treated him like a retard. It had taken him an entire month to get someone to explain him where his father was… as if it was so difficult to draw a coffin on a piece of paper. Thomas scowled to himself. They had done tests at the hospital until every square inch of his body had been scanned and mapped, and concluding that he had irreparable brain damage, they had sent him to a so-called “revalidation centre”. It was a crossover of a retirement home and an insane asylum, and to him, a dead end on the road to recovery. He was housed among drooling vegetables, people who had lost multiple limbs, who couldn’t eat by themselves, who didn’t even recognize their own reflection anymore… and no matter how much he wanted to think that he wasn’t so far gone, he couldn’t be sure. In his head his speech made sense, and he could read the things he wrote, but he seemed to be the only one seeing some logic in it. For all he knew he was just uttering random syllables and scribbling aimlessly; they certainly treated him as if that was the case. They called it Aphasia; the word had been used often enough for him to pick it up as a term for his condition. Thomas had picked up several words over time; food, bathroom, bed, therapy, no, yes, and several others… but the doctors and therapists always applauded him as if he had made a major achievement every time he used one of those, so he had simply stopped it. He wasn’t in kindergarten; he didn’t need a prize for being able to express himself, thank you very much.

Sometimes he felt a little guilty for the way he acted towards everybody. It was perhaps no wonder that they treated him like a toddler, as he threw temper tantrums like one… But he was so pissed, and he couldn’t explain it to anybody, and every time he was reminded of how he could not explain what he felt, the anger became worse. It was like being locked up in a tiny prison cell without windows; all he could do was yell and scream and bang at the walls, hoping that someone might hear his distress. The rage kept him fighting. Somehow he knew that if he stopped being angry, he would simply stop living. And he didn’t want to die… although he didn’t dare to ask himself what he was living for. Right now, all he had was stubbornness.

His future didn’t look too bright. In the best case he would stay here until he was old and decrepit, still calling the doctors “stinking pigs” in his own unintelligible pig Latin. And that was the best-case scenario, in which he didn’t provide himself with a premature death by cutting his wrists or jumping out of a window. Thomas’ frown deepened. Now he thought about it, he wasn’t so sure anymore that the scenario in which he lived the longest was also the best…

 ………….

The nurse came in again. This time, she had brought a plastic folder with pictures. This usually meant that something would change about his day-to-day schedule, so Thomas allowed her to come in without throwing stuff at her head and yelling to fuck off. The occasional bout of tolerance was also good for his chamber plants; the more temper tantrums he threw, the more pills he had to pretend to swallow and then bury in the plant pots, and he feared that it was starting to show.

The nurse spoke slowly, and pointed towards different brightly coloured pictures in the folder. Therapy, Music, Afternoon… All right, he was apparently having some kind of musical therapy in the afternoon. He nodded towards the nurse to show that he had understood, but internally he was shaking his head. Music therapy? They must be getting truly desperate. They had set a hoard of speech- and other therapists on him when he had first arrived, but one by one those had given up, sometimes because the therapy wasn’t suited to his problem, but mostly because he refused to cooperate. His comprehension had not been reduced to the level of a first grader, but apparently that was too difficult to grasp for the people in the centre. They heard him babble nonsense, so they assumed that his knowledge of the world had been reduced to nonsense as well. And without the ability to explain what he could and could not understand, he had no other defence against asininity than his silence. Thomas put it quite simply for himself: he was not retarded and he wasn’t in preschool, so he would be treated like an adult or not at all. And everyone who disagreed could eat shit.

He angrily started drawing in his sketchbook. At least his drawings were universally understandable. He had always liked to draw, but ever since it was his sole method of communication besides those infantile picture books, he had gotten significantly better at it. However, because he had nothing much to communicate except for anger, he specialized in drawing things to unsettle the medical personnel. He was becoming particularly skilled at drawing corpses... This time he decided to go all out and draw a massacre, so he would have something to frighten the new therapist with. Thomas already had an image in his head of what a “music therapist” might look like, and he didn’t think they would be the type to appreciate a good dose of gore… He chuckled in unholy glee when he imagined the face the therapist would probably pull when she entered the room to such a sight…

* * *

In the 7th age he had run into an elf he had thought long gone. Daeron, the bard of Doriath. There was irony in the fact that of all elves, he had to come across the only other anguished, wandering minstrel in Middle Earth… but in the end that hadn’t mattered much. They had both been desperate for company, and in the face of loneliness they had set aside their differences and opted to live together. He had told himself at the time that it was only a matter of practicality; when you were the only remaining specimens of your kind, it made sense to stick together after all. Yet over time he had come to care for the Sinda, which had made their eventual parting all the more painful. Maglor had thought his heart had turned to stone when he had cast away the Silmaril, but the death of Daeron had proven him that he was still capable of grief.

When they had first met Daeron had already been weakened, and as more years had passed the Sinda had only diminished more. A cold that no fire could warm had spread through his body, and a veil of weariness had fallen over his once so sharp mind. In the end, he had slept almost all the time, his dreams only calm when Maglor had held him. The Noldo could only guess why the same hadn’t happened to him, as he had experienced enough pain to break any fëa. Perhaps it was the light of the Trees that had nurtured his being, or the stubborn blood of his father, or even his wretched Oath… but either way, he had remained bound to the world while his friend had diminished and passed into the Halls. Before, Maglor would have considered it part of his punishment, being forced to endure while all others passed on… but having to care for Daeron while he faded had changed his perspective. He had truly helped the tormented Sinda; their friendship had given Daeron peace and eased his passing. Even while mourning, Maglor had felt that he had done a good thing.

And so, in the wake of the minstrel’s death, he had made his decision. Instead of adding to his own suffering and continuing to wallow in self-pity, he would try to relieve the suffering of others. His deeds had brought enough pain into the world; trying to take some of that away would be the least he could do.

Throughout the ages Maglor had never lacked for work, for of all things the world had never had a shortage of sorrow. He had travelled around and tried to make himself useful, wherever and however the situation demanded; he had worked on battlefields, in hospitals, in the ravage of natural disasters, in slums, in homes for the elderly… more places than even he remembered clearly.

It might have been coincidence that he found himself in the Charlesbury Revalidation Clinic in the Cotswolds that faithful Monday afternoon, as he could just as well have been in Ethiopia or Syria at the time… but in retrospect, he didn’t think so. Valar-forsaken as this world might be, there were still some people in it that Arda’s divine beings just couldn’t leave alone, unfortunately.

 ……………..

“We are grateful you could take up another patient. I understand your schedule is very busy.”

“You could say that. Can you tell me a bit more of this patient? I understand that he has serious aphasia, but…”

Maglor left the sentence unfinished, and Dr Anita Beardsley smiled kindly at him.

“Ah, you haven’t been given his file yet? I’ll try to fill you in then. He’s a piece of work, this boy!” She shook her head. “Severe brain damage after a car accident, and if the reports are to be believed, he shouldn’t even be alive; the neurologists had estimated that he would never wake from his coma. It’s a small miracle how self-reliant he is given the state of his brain; he needs no help with eating, washing, or any other basic chores, and non-verbal intelligence tests show that his IQ is normal and even slightly above average. Gross and fine motor skills are impeccable, pattern recognition and practical understanding of situations as well… as long as he doesn’t open his mouth, you could mistake him for a healthy adolescent!”

Maglor nodded in understanding.

“But the aphasia…?”

“Yes, the aphasia. It’s a sad case really, because he has recovered so well in virtually all other areas. He has a severe form of Wernicke’s Aphasia; his speech is fluent but meaningless, he no longer knows how to write, and he doesn’t understand language, neither spoken nor written. His previous therapists have noted that there seems to be some method in his babbling, but as he has shown himself entirely unwilling to work with them this hasn’t been explored further. I think it’s the most complete loss of communication skills in a further functional person that I’ve ever seen in my career.”

“He is unwilling to cooperate in therapy?”

“Yes. He is extremely prone to temper tantrums and violent outbursts, and seems to find pleasure in exasperating his therapists and caregivers. We suspect that the brain damage also caused changes in his character, as he had no history of behavioural problems.”

“And is any form of communication possible with him?”

“We work with picture-books mostly. He is very visually inclined, also loves to draw.” The blonde doctor frowned. “I must admit that he is very talented, but his work is not exactly everybody’s piece of cake. He has an unfortunate fascination for all things dead and decaying. I don’t know if that’s old or more recent, you never know with those artsy types.”

“Oh. I see.”

Dr Beardsley pulled a sour face.

“You sure will see! He plasters his room with his drawings… there is no escaping them! It’s very unsettling, if I may say so. They are disturbingly realistic.”

“I’m not easily unsettled.”

The doctor didn’t seem convinced, and Maglor couldn’t exactly blame her. In his therapist’s guise he didn’t exactly look as if he had seen more wars than her history books made mention of… He decided to change the subject.

“And his family?”

“None. His mother had died already, and his father died in the car accident. There were no other living relatives. Fortunately, his father left him a very generous heritage, thanks to which he will be able to spend the rest of his days in this clinic. We are a very renowned institution for people with non-congenital brain dysfunctions; he receives excellent care here. Many people meet a less pleasant fate when they become incapacitated.”

“I can imagine that.”

By then, they had reached the boy’s room.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Meet me for a coffee in the staff room at the end of the hall when you’re done! I’ll make sure to have a copy of the file ready for you.”

Anita Beardsley waved cheerfully at him and then hurried away. Maglor waited before she had entered the staff room to knock on the door. He received no answer, but came in anyway. The first thing he perceived when entering was the anger. The entire room was permeated by a sense of powerless, uncontrolled rage. Maglor ignored the morbid –but indeed skilfully drawn- pictures of mangled bodies that littered the room, and focussed on its occupant. Thomas Ashworth was a slender young man with messy dark brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and an angry glare. He sat on the bed with a sketchbook in his lap, and stared at Maglor with unabashed loathing. He had an intense gaze for a mortal; Maglor could easily imagine how that glare would unnerve less experienced people... For a while, they were both silent, eyeing each other as to determine what they could expect. And then, the boy opened his mouth.

“Istan quetë ya merin, az lá hanyuvatyen...”

And Maglor was, for the first time in many ages, completely dumbstruck. 

* * *

The music therapist was not what he had expected. Thomas had pictured some type of kindergarten-teacher-type, possibly blonde and in a flowery dress, and the individual in his room definitely didn’t fit that picture. He was tall and handsome, with black hair reaching his shoulders and a face that wouldn’t have looked bad in a fashion magazine. Most remarkable were his piercing eyes… Thomas wished the man wouldn’t look at him like that, it sent shivers down his spine.

_“I can say what I wish, and you won’t understand me.”_

He had planned to say something inappropriate and foul, but as the afternoon drew near, he had lost the urge. His glee at the thought of another shocked and disgusted caretaker had been short-lived, and all he had been left with was the bitter realization that once again, he would have to face his inability to be understood. And so, instead of throwing things at the man’s head and cursing at him, he simply stated that fact.

The reaction was… not what he had expected. The man stared at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, eyes wide in astonishment. Now people always gave him odd looks when he said something, but this must be the first time his garbled speech had truly perplexed someone like that… Thomas opened his mouth to make a comment on it, when something even more unexpected happened.

“How… how is this possible?”

For a moment, he thought it had been his imagination. Had he really understood what the man said? He had already discarded the possibility, when the visitor repeated his question, with more conviction this time.

“How is this possible? Where have you learned that tongue?” A frown marred the man’s face. “Who are you truly?”

Thomas didn’t know what to think. Was he dreaming? He had to be, this was just too weird to be real…

“I… I could ask you the same thing. Is this an actual language? I mean, no one understands it. They all think I’m speaking gibberish. Hell, I thought I spoke gibberish!”

“It’s Quenya. More specifically, Old Quenya. It is one of the world’s oldest tongues.”

“That makes no sense. People don’t learn a whole new language from scratch after being in a car accident. I’m hallucinating, no?”

That had to be it. He had finally cracked, and now he was imagining that people could understand him. It wasn’t even so far-fetched; people became psychotic for less these days.

“You are not hallucinating.”

“Right, that’s like the voices in your head telling you you’re not crazy.”

The man was starting to look a little exasperated.

“Will you at least give me the chance to convince you?”

“Fine. Go ahead. Surprise me.”

…………. 

“All right. I guess I’ll have to believe you. I could never make all that up.”

Thomas’ head was spinning with names, events and family ties. In an hour he had received the summary of a history full of bloody battles, unbreakable oaths, magic jewels and treacherous family members, and even he didn’t believe that he was capable of inventing all that in a bout of psychosis. Also, the pointed ears of his therapist were rather undeniable.

“Good.”

“So, what is the point of this?” Thomas gestured at himself. “Do your divine overlords have nothing better to do than playing with the language settings of random human beings?”

“I can’t claim to know the minds of the Valar… but I believe you may have been given a mission.”

“A mission?”

“It has happened before that a mortal was given a task from the Valar… Although I can't for the life of me imagine what they want with you. From what I’ve seen, they have all but abandoned this planet.”

Thomas shook his head and cynically remarked,

“Who knows? Maybe they wanted a good laugh. I know I would have a good laugh if I could curse someone with a language no one understands.”

The mysterious therapist, who had introduced himself as Maglor, raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

He shrugged.

“No. But I would be satisfied to know that I’m not the only one whose life is fucked.” He scowled at Maglor’s unconvinced look. “Hell, you said yourself you don’t know what these Valar people think, and you’ve known them personally! How am I supposed to make better sense of it?”

“True. Maybe we should wait it out. If you have truly been given a mission, it will be made clear to you later on.”

“Right. Do I have to watch out for burning bushes?”

“Wrong religion.”

A wry smile curled Thomas’ lips.

“Whatever.”

“In the meantime, I can try to re-teach you some of your old mother tongue. That is, if you are willing to cooperate. I have heard that your track record of failed therapies is impressive.”

“As long as you have no picture books for toddlers with you, I’ll be more than willing to cooperate.”

Maglor smiled.

“In that case, we’re good.” 

* * *

The situation was surreal, and that was the least that could be said about it. Maglor had long pondered over what he would do if the Valar were to send him a message… but he hadn’t expected it to come in the shape of a young, enraged mortal who spoke fluent Quenya. He didn’t quite know what to think of it. Thomas was obviously a young mortal and not a reincarnated elf or a Maia in disguise… but some of his mannerisms, the way he lisped his s, moved his hands when speaking, or slightly cocked his head to the side when listening, sent jolts of recognition down Maglor’s spine. In those moments, he didn’t see Thomas but his own father, if only for a fraction of a second. He wondered if the Valar had done that on purpose… Knowing them, they probably had.

After a while he left Thomas with the promise to return the next day, and went to meet Anita Beardsley in the staff room.

“Ah, there you are! We almost feared you had run off! How did it go?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“Well as in, he threw nothing at your head?”

“No, well as in the therapy went very well. I believe that with an intensive schedule, we could make great progress.”

The doctor’s eyes widened.

“You’re serious? He actually cooperated?”  When Maglor nodded, she shook her head in disbelief. “You, sir, are a miracle worker. We had all but given up on that boy. The last therapist said he was a devil’s spawn and refused to ever see him again.”

“Well, I think there is still hope for him.”

“I hope you are right… but I think if you could convince him to stop throwing things at the nurses, that would be great progress already. We are used to a lot here, but I have to admit it gets a little tiring sometimes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

He had almost forgotten what it was like to have a conversation, to understand and be understood. Never mind how ridiculous and borderline insane the conversation had been, simply the fact that someone had understood him was amazing. Thomas could still hardly believe it… But then, the whole situation was admittedly rather incredible. Discovering that he spoke a millennia old language and that his therapist was an immortal elf had been bizarre enough, but that whole mission-from-the-gods thing was even more out there. It was one thing to think that if there was a god, he must really hate you… but it was another to actually get that confirmed. Maglor had said that a mission from these Powers was a great honour, but Thomas was honestly sceptic. He had read enough myths to know that missions from gods usually had more to do with providing them amusement than with great honour…

He shook his head. That morning, he hadn’t believed in any deity, and now he was suddenly forced to believe in not one but at least 14 of them, who had apparently messed up his life on purpose.

_Because Gods have nothing better to do. Seriously. They could be solving the world hunger problem, or global warming, or war in the Middle East... but no. They mess with the life of one random guy. And what for? They’re probably just bored out of their minds._

Thomas wondered what was worse; being brain-damaged and babbling nonsense, or being the chosen victim of a crowd of bored divine beings… If the Greek gods were anything to go by, things weren’t looking too well for him.

 …………… 

The meeting with Maglor had been a key event, it turned out. That night, Thomas dreamed.

He was standing in a large hall of dark marble. There were no windows, and despite the largeness of the place, he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. The air was thick and heavy, like a fog.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

His voice echoed through the marble, but he received no answer. He knew it was a dream, which was odd, because he had never had a lucid dream before, and certainly not of so ominous and unsettling a place. Thomas started walking around a little aimlessly. The hall was followed by more, similar halls, and all of them were equally plain and eerie.

_Maybe this is like that station in The Matrix, and I’m just walking back into the same room over and over again…_

“Thomas.”

The voice had sounded right behind him. With a start he turned, and found himself faced with a tall man -God? Creature? Being?- with a stern, ageless face. Long black tresses and billowing black robes seemed to waft around the appeared figure like smoke, and Thomas found himself regarded with the blackest eyes he had ever seen. It felt as if they stared right into his soul; Maglor’s eyes had given him the creeps, but this really took the cake. If this weren’t a dream, he would have taken a run for it…

“There is not much time to explain.”

Even in his awe at the majestic –and really kind of scary- being, Thomas felt annoyance at that. He would have thought that gods had all the time in the world to explain things… but then, he supposed the amusement from giving tasks to mortals partially came from watching them try to figure out what to do. Undeterred by Thomas’ chagrined expression, the being continued,

“The dead and the living are not on the same plane of existence, and they do not remain in the same physical place either. However, not all those who have died depart from the world as they should. Unseen, they remain among the living.”

“Like… ghosts?”

The being solemnly nodded.

“Yes, in a way. Children can see them to a certain age, but they are only very rarely aware of this ability. Some adults are sensitive as well… but they cannot truly see them. Their perception is like the sight of one under water, deformed and unclear.”

That was all very interesting –okay, mostly just plain weird- but why did he need to know this? How did this relate to his Quenya problem?

“Err… okay… but what does that have to do with me? I mean, not to be rude, but… it’s all kind of confusing.”

Thomas wasn’t sure, but he thought the being’s face gained a hint of sadness.

“You exist on the line between the living and the dead, Thomas Ashworth, and as such you can see and interact with both.”

Wow. Now that was unexpected. Thomas wondered how many other surprises like that awaited him.

“And what is the point of that?”

“The spirits of the dead must pass to their designated places. It is the way of things. The un-housed ones should not be among the living. Their presence causes disturbances.”

Thomas was starting to get a clue.

“And you want me to convince them to go to the afterlife, or whatever, because I can talk to them?”

“You have understood.”

“Well, in that case I don’t understand why I have this whole mythical language thing going on. Or do all ghosts speak this Quenya or something?”

This was a dream, so he could be as rude to divine beings as he wanted. And really, he was entitled to a bit of explanation.

“Usually, un-housed spirits understand any language.”

“Then why…?”

“The dead understand all tongues, because after their passing they are in connection with a different plane of being, where language and communication are no longer connected as such. The longer they remain among the living however, the more this connection fades.”

“And…?”

The dark being was undisturbed by Thomas’ impatience.

“Together with the connection, they lose their ability to understand all languages, and also to find their way to what you call the afterlife. There are some who have been lost for so long that they would not recognize any language but the oldest. Those spirits especially need to return as soon as possible.”

“And how am I supposed to find them?”

The creature didn’t answer his question, and instead made a dismissive gesture.

“We are out of time. Things will be clear when you wake.”

The eerie marble halls started to fade and dissolved into thick black vapour, and Thomas suddenly felt the ground disappear under his feet. As he fell down, the being’s rumbling voice echoed around him.

“We will meet again, Thomas Ashworth.”

Right when he thought he was going to hit the ground, he woke with a start in his own bed…

……………  

Fluent in a mythical language? Check. Suddenly paranormally gifted? Check. Burdened with glorious purpose? Check. Utterly pissed? Double check. Thomas stood in front of his bathroom mirror, and tried to determine if he might be crazy. Too bad insanity didn’t show like a rash, it would be so much easier to diagnose… He wondered what Maglor would have to say about it all. A bit of practical advice would be nice…

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Thomas’ head. He could draw the mystery being and the surroundings from his dream, and then perhaps the elf could tell him more about it when he arrived. It would at least give him something to do besides worrying and being on the lookout for ghosts... Thomas wondered how they would look. Would he even notice the difference with living people? Maybe they looked exactly the same, and just went about their business like normal people, only invisible to everyone else. That would be awkward…

* * *

“He’s in a terrible mood today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he keeps trying to draw something, but he can’t seem to manage, with all expected consequences. He’s been ripping paper and throwing things around all day.” Anita Beardsley raised her eyebrows at Maglor. “Are you certain you don’t want to postpone the therapy until he has calmed down a bit?”

“My presence might be calming to him.”

The blonde’s incredulous look clearly said that he didn’t know what he was getting into.

“Well, it’s your call! Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when he throws a plant pot at your head though!”

“Don’t worry, Dr Beardsley. I have a hard head.”

She chuckled.

“A hardhat might be safer… “ They had again reached the door of room 27. “I have an appointment now, so you’re on your own.”

“I’m sure I will manage.”

“Well, good luck!”

“Thank you.”

He entered the room to find Thomas on the bed, exasperatedly tearing sheets of paper from his sketchbook.

“Wrong, wrong, it’s all WRONG!”

He looked –and sounded- a frightening lot like Fëanor in one of his “inspired” bouts of fury, Maglor noted. Carefully he asked,

“What is wrong?”

The boy looked up with a wild and tormented look in his eyes.

“This! Everything! I see it like it’s right in front of me, but I CAN’T DRAW IT! It’s like my pen refuses to capture his face! GAH!”

Maglor looked at the crumpled drawings littering the floor. Black eyes, and lots of hair, bits and pieces of faces but never a complete likeness… he was starting to understand what had happened.

“You dreamed of Lord Námo, the Vala of the Dead.”

That seemed to draw Thomas from his frustration.

“What?”

Maglor gestured at the drawings.

“Trying to catch his likeness in any medium is a futile endeavour. Lord Námo is as solid and yet immaterial as his halls. No matter how clear the memory, it cannot be reproduced.”

Thomas seemed to take that information in strife, and his rage disappeared, as was it never there. He suddenly grinned.

“Neat trick. Criminals would love to know how to do that... No robot photos, no mug shots, no camera footage... they’d be untraceable!”

Maglor suddenly had a mental image of police agents trying to take a mug shot of Námo. He suppressed a slightly blasphemous chuckle.

“I don’t think Lord Námo has ever considered taking advantage of this quality in such a manner… But tell me, what do you know now?”

“Apparently I see dead people.”

“What?”

“For some reason I can see the souls of the dead who refused to go to the afterlife after they died. And I have to convince them to go to the afterlife anyway.”

“That’s your task?”

Thomas nodded.

“He also mentioned something about extremely old souls who only speak Quenya and have been lost for a long time. I specifically have to find those, for some reason.”

Maglor’s heart clenched, as he instantly, instinctively knew whose souls it concerned. He had hoped that they would have found peace, but he had doubted it, given the doom they had called over themselves, the violent ways they had died, and the general stubbornness of their fëar. And now…

“Did he say anything else?”

The boy disrespectfully rolled his eyes.

“No. He was totally vague. I really wonder why this Lord Námo person didn’t make you his chosen therapist-for-the-dead. I mean; you already are a therapist, and you already speak Quenya, and you have thousands of years of experience, while I… what the hell am I supposed to say to those souls that will make them reconsider the afterlife?”

“He will have had his reasons.”

Maglor knew well enough what those reasons were, but he wasn’t ready to share it. There hung a silence between them. At long last, Thomas asked.

“So, what do we do now?”

“We start looking for ghosts.”

If the Valar could lead him to Thomas, they could also lead them to the right places, the right fëar. They would just need to have faith, and patience. Lots of patience.


	2. Ghostbusters?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Maglor start up a bureau for paranormal investigations; their first case brings them to a single mother whose daughter has acquired a mysterious invisible friend with pointy ears and a bad temper…

The idea had popped up during one of their language classes; instead of going out to look for ghosts, they should let the ghosts come to them. And so their little project had been born: Smith & Ashworth, Paranormal Investigations. Thomas still thought it was utterly ridiculous, but then, everything about this situation was, so he just went with it. Also, he didn’t really have a better plan.

He hadn’t thought they would receive much reaction to the sober website, but apparently there were quite a few people in need of a medium. He could hardly believe how many people thought their house was bewitched, their dead lover was stalking them, or a murder had happened in their apartment… Many messages were obviously written as a joke or by a mentally ill individual, but there were some that stood out. Their site had been online for only two weeks when the first really interesting email popped in.

 ……………..

_Dear Mr Smith and Mr Ashworth,_

_My name is Suzy Holland. I am 26 years old, and single mother of a little girl. I’ve never been a superstitious person, and I never thought to need a psychic at any point in my life, but things have just gone too far and I am honestly desperate for help. Your site looked trustworthy enough, and your address wasn’t so far from my home, so I thought to give it a chance._

_My problems all begin around my daughter Hayley’s 5 th birthday, when she made an “imaginary friend”. We had only just moved to a new home and I thought she was having a bit of a hard time adjusting, so I indulged her; I put an extra plate at the table, read two bedtime stories, asked her friend’s opinion on things… you can probably imagine it. I was only trying to be considerate of her feelings! _

_However, after a while, I started to notice strange things about this imaginary friend of hers. In all her drawings he was depicted as an angry adult man, almost four times her size. I don’t know what your first thoughts are at that, but mine certainly weren’t good. And the things she told me about him! Hayley has never even lost a grandparent, but her imaginary friend has apparently lost all his family to war, and she even gave me detailed descriptions of how his little brother had been run through with a sword and how he had held him while he chocked on his own blood. What five-year-old invents things like that? I first believed she had seen it on TV or something, but with all that happened afterwards I don’t think so anymore…_

_Things really took a turn for the worse after I had promised Hayley we would go to an amusement park, but then a colleague fell ill and I couldn’t take the day off. When I told her, she threw a tantrum like I had never seen before; I thought she was having an attack of some sort! She kept screaming at me that I had to keep my promises and that I had to do what I promised or bad things would happen and I would die and everyone would die… She didn’t throw a tantrum because the outing was cancelled, but because she truly believed I was going to die for not keeping my promise. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine where she had gotten that idea, but she was honestly terrified. She eventually cried herself to sleep, and I thought it would be all right after that… But then, when I came home from work the next day our living room was in shambles. Chairs had been thrown about, the sofa had been toppled, my plant pots were broken, red crayon had been scribbled all over the walls… it was a right mess. I reported it as vandalism, but there were no signs of breaking and entering. I assumed Hayley would be scared at the thought of someone breaking into our house, but when I tried to reassure her she calmly told me that she wasn’t scared at all. Her friend had wrecked the living room, because I had upset her and that had made him angry. She didn’t even seem to consider this a bad thing!_

_And that was only the first of more such occurrences. They mostly weren’t and aren’t so violent, but still… notable. Hayley’s imaginary friend takes up literal space in our household. When I don’t set the table for him too, I am sure to be buying new crockery the next day. No one sits on “his” chair anymore, or puts stuff in “his” corner. And if I upset Hayley… I don’t even want to go there. I feel like a tyrannical presence has seized my home. I feel watched, and if I didn’t have all this proof that something is really wrong I would think I’m going crazy._

_Is this a ghost, a demon, something else? I don’t know what to do anymore; I just know that I can’t live like this. And it can’t be healthy for my daughter either to have this thing latched on to her!_

_Please help us, I beg of you._

_Sincerely,_

_Suzy Holland._

 ………...

Maglor had paled while reading that email.

“We have to go here.”

Thomas felt discomforted by the woman’s story; if they threw in some dead animals it wouldn’t make a bad plot for a horror movie…

“Do we have to?”

“I am certain. This is one of the spirits you are looking for.”

Damn.

“Then there is no escaping it, I guess… Am I even allowed to leave the clinic?”

Maglor shrugged.

“Well, you have passed your majority, and lately you haven’t caused much problems, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t be. If necessary, I can always say it’s for your therapy.”

He had indeed been on his best behaviour lately. Having someone to talk to had lessened the frequency of his temper tantrums, and for Maglor’s sake he refrained from purposefully annoying the nurses. Not to mention that his English language classes were slowly yet steadily paying off. He had a horrible accent, a small vocabulary, and a seriously lacking understanding of grammar, but it was better than nothing… So far he hadn’t swallowed his pride and showed his renewed understanding of the language to anyone but Maglor, but it was endlessly pleasing to no longer be completely isolated.

As predicted the hospital staff made no issue of him going on an outing, although they did want him to wear a large card with his name, address and phone number on around his neck. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, especially because Maglor seemed to find his barely repressed indignation rather amusing. In the car, Thomas angrily threw the card in the backseat.

“I hate these people.”

“They are just trying to help you. They aren’t villains, most of them are quite nice.”

“Nice maybe, but they have obviously never heard of letting someone keep his dignity.”

“It is only humiliating because you perceive accepting their help as such. You could have made much more progress in English already if you had allowed them to help you.”

“I refuse to be treated like a retard. If they can’t help me in a decent way, I don’t need their help.”

“And by refusing their help, you reinforce their perception that you indeed are what you call a retard. I think the politically correct term is mentally challenged.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about politically correct. Can we talk about something else?”

They were silent for the rest of the trip.

* * *

Thomas was not easy-going or overly pleasant, but Maglor didn’t think he had a bad character. He was just… very angry. Mad at everything. Mad at the world. Mad because it all wasn’t fair. It was the kind of anger that continued to eat at you because it was both too big and too petty to put in words; Maglor knew the feeling well enough.

Thomas’ rage reminded him of his brother Maedhros, after Thangorodhrim. After the fever, and the uncertain days when he would only stare emptily at the walls, the anger had come. No one was allowed to look at him. No one was allowed to help him. Even simply addressing him could cause a frightening outburst. Yet that anger had saved him in the end, though the process hadn’t been easy on any of them. Earlier, Maglor had thought that Maedhros’ strength and ability to pull through were Eldarin qualities… but by now he had witnessed enough humans showing remarkable feats of strength in the direst of situations to know this wasn’t true. Illúvatar had given the gift of perseverance to all his children, and Maglor dared say perhaps in greater quantity to the Aftercomers. In any case, it was far less disconcerting to see a bit of Maedhros in Thomas, than to see the shadow of Fëanor in him.

Maglor’s mind turned to the task ahead. What would they find? The feeling he had gotten when he read the email was as close to true precognition as he had ever come… Could it truly be the spirit of one of his brothers that was haunting that young girl? None of his brothers had ever shown much interest in mortals, let alone enough interest to want to occupy themself with one of their children… but then, millennia of disembodied loneliness could change a person, and Maglor wasn’t sure he wanted to contemplate in what ways. He remembered very well what had been said about fëar who refused the call of Mandos; that they were evil, or soon would be, as the strain of a disembodied existence twisted mind and fëa beyond repair. If his intuition were right… would there be anything left of his brothers?

 ………………..

After the initial introductions, and a quick but well thought-out story about being born and raised in Africa to explain Thomas’ language issues, they found themselves at Suzy Holland’s kitchen table. She was a rather plain woman with watery blue eyes and light brown curls, and the big bags under her eyes didn’t do her any favours. She seemed completely exhausted.

“I am so glad you could come. I think I told you most in my letter, but if there’s anything else…”

“Is Hayley at home?”

“Yes, of course. I think the thing is always with her, so it wouldn’t make sense to have you here while she was in school…” She bit her lip. “Do… do you think you can make it leave? Or exorcise it, or what it is that you do? Will it work?”

Maglor smiled kindly at the woman.

“We will try our very best, Mrs Holland. Could we talk to Hayley for a moment?”

“Of course.” She smiled back a little coquettishly, pushing some curls behind her ear. “And please, call me Suzy. Mrs Holland is my mother.”

“All right.”

Suzy called out,

“Hayley! There are some people who want to talk to you here!”

“Coming!”

A small girl’s voice answered immediately, and a moment later said small girl came into the kitchen. She was a cute little thing, with her mother’s curls, caught in two pigtails, and a pair of curious, bright green orbs. Maglor’s eyes were immediately draw to the wooden toy sword strapped to the girl’s waist; by the wear of the hilt and the multiple dents in the blade he could tell it was a beloved possession… She frowned suspiciously at them.

“Who’re they?”

Suzy smiled a little strainedly.

“Hayley, these are Maka and Thomas, two friends of mine. They are interested in… your friend.” She hesitated for a moment. “Is he with you now?”

For some reason, the girl’s suspicion fell away immediately when she caught sight of Maglor.

“No, he’s watching my stove so the soup doesn’t burn.” She grinned widely at them. “We’re playing house.”

Maglor tried to imagine one of his brothers dutifully watching over the play-kitchen of a little human girl, and failed royally. He playfully raised an eyebrow at the girl.

“With a sword?”

“Not really, but Moryo says you should never be without a sword.” She sagely looked at Maglor. “Enemies are everywhere. You must always be ready to defend yourself.”

Moryo. Caranthir. Of all his brothers, it had to be sulky, cantankerous, easily angered Caranthir. Maglor wanted to shake his head in disbelief.

“That… Certainly there are no enemies in your own home?”

Hayley shrugged.

“No, but it’s good to practice.”

“I see; that’s true indeed. Is Moryo nice to you? Doesn’t he get angry a lot?”

“Oh no, he is always very nice to me! And he pushed Billy off the jungle gym when he pulled my skirt up. Moryo is my best friend. He only gets angry when people hurt me.” Hayley fumbled a bit with her toy sword. “He gets sad a lot though, because his brothers are all gone. Bad people killed them.”

“Bad people?”

More fumbling.

“It’s kinda complicated. Moryo says they weren’t bad, but mommy says good people don’t make others dead, so they must be bad.”

Children’s idea of the world was so honestly black and white… Maglor couldn’t even remember having been like that. He sighed inwardly, but kept up a smile.

“I see. And what do you and Moryo talk about, most of the time?”

She shrugged.

“Oh, just stuff. School, and how I have to hold my sword. He also likes to watch Disney videos. And Cartoon Network.”

His warlike, angry brother watching cartoons and fairy tales? Voluntarily? And enjoying it? For all his imagination, Maglor couldn’t form himself an image of that…

“You know, your mommy told me that you always keep your promises. Is that true?”

She nodded fervently.

“It’s most important. You should never make a promise you can’t keep. Moryo says if you do so, bad things will happen, and people will die. He says that’s why people made his brothers dead, for a promise.”

Maglor swallowed thickly…

* * *

While Maglor conversed with Hayley, Thomas slipped into the living room. He wanted to know if there really was a spirit, and if so, what it would look like. He didn’t have to search long for it; in a corner of the room, crammed between a plastic kid’s kitchenette and a cheap IKEA bookshelf, sat a tall elf with long black hair, dressed in a black tunic and breeches. Even without the period costume and the sword strapped to his belt, there would have been no doubt that this was no normal living being… Thomas felt it the moment he caught sight of him.

The elf seemed to be not all there, in a visual sense. Looking at the ghost was a bit like looking at a picture on a glitchy computer screen; even when you couldn’t see the missing pixels, you could tell something was off about it. He appeared solid, but at the same time not, a bit like that Lord Námo character.

Thomas carefully observed the ghost. He didn’t immediately look like the ideal friend for a small child… but he did look a lot like Maglor. Thomas wasn’t stupid; this was too big a coincidence to actually be a coincidence. With some effort he kept his annoyance under control. Getting mad wouldn’t help the situation; he would make sure to grill Maglor about all this later, but now he had a dead elf to take care of. And who knew, maybe all elves looked like each other, he had no way to tell after all.

He wasn’t a person of many words. Never had been, and not having anyone to talk to for almost a year hadn’t improved his conversation skills. He didn’t have a clue of what to say to a dead person… How had Hayley called the ghost again, Morio or something like that? His mind had drawn a blank, but the moment he thought of that name, all of a sudden the words he needed tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Moryo, why are you still here?”

It came out with more strength than he had intended, and the ghost looked at him with a start, as if he only now noticed Thomas’ presence. With wide eyes he stared at him, the anxious look on his face giving it an almost childlike quality.

“You can’t be here. It’s not you.” The voice was old, but just like the spirit’s face there was something oddly innocent about it. “You burned, left us.”

Thomas decided to ignore that, and continue his questioning.

“Why are you still here?”

“It was too dark, and the way was closed. I was lost.” Moryo’s eyes hazed over and his appearance became a little more vague. He drew his knees against his chest. “So lost…”

“Are you still lost?”

He nodded vaguely, his eyes still unfocused.

“Lost. I failed… failed to protect…” A shiver ran through his form. “He never made it easy… and I wasn’t the best brother I guess… but I still promised I would keep him safe…” Another shiver racked through him, and all of a sudden, the lost look in his eyes made place for anger. A deep frown twisted his face into a bitter scowl, and a heated blush coloured his cheeks. He glared at Thomas, and his voice was powerful when he spoke up. “But then, I promised a lot didn’t I? We all did. We did everything for you! Everything! You promised us the world, and we gladly doomed ourselves for you!"

The ghost appeared ready to draw his sword at Thomas, who decided that he had never been in so weird a situation before. Did he perhaps look like someone this ghost had known? Moryo seemed to ask himself the same question, his anger fading into wide-eyed confusion again as he cocked his head to the side and took a good look at Thomas. His voice was oddly airy and devoid of any rage when he mumbled,

“No, not for you. Not you-you, I mean. It’s not you, is it?”

He seemed at least as perplexed by it all as Thomas was… Thomas knew he had to make use of the ghost’s calm moments though, as he suspected this one was particularly temperamental. He really did not want to find out if ghostly swords could still kill you…

“I wonder what you want with little Hayley.”

Moryo was unexpectedly rational when he explained it.

“I have to protect her. She has no brothers, no father to teach her how to hold a sword. She doesn’t know how to defend herself, and the world is full of peril. I can’t fail her too. I failed my brothers already. I failed everyone.” The rationality disappeared as suddenly as it had arisen, and a moment later, Moryo was sobbing. “I tried. I tried so hard, father... C-can you f-forgive me?”

Thomas was struck speechless for a moment. How on earth did this elf mistake him for his father? He was still wondering what he should do, when Maglor, little Hayley and her mother entered the living room. The girl immediately ran to Caranthir and wrapped her arms around him. She glared at Thomas.

“You made him cry!”

That was easy enough to understand, even for someone with his limited knowledge of English. A little indignant, he answered her,

“Not with purpose!”

Hayley ignored him in favour of comforting Moryo. When he looked aside, he caught Maglor’s eyes. He frowned at the elf.

_“You and I are going to have a serious conversation when this is over, mark my words!”_

Maglor looked shocked, making Thomas wonder if he really made as scary a face as the nurses liked to make him believe. Turning back, he found that Hayley was comfortingly patting Moryo’s hair while the spirit leant in to her touch. It made him wonder how the hell he was going to get this elf to the afterlife, as he was obviously very attached to Hayley…

Moryo’s tears subsided under the loving attention of the little girl, and a little later he sat curled up in the corner with a distant look in his eyes, calmly sucking his thumb like a small child. Hayley sat next to him, sending glowering looks to both Thomas and Maglor. Most seriously she stated,

“You hurt him. I should have your head for that.”

Thomas wondered if he had really just been threatened with decapitation by a six-year-old, or if something had gotten lost in translation. He shrugged a little helplessly.

“Not mean to.”

“What do you want with him? Can’t you just leave us alone?”

Before he could come up with an intelligible answer, Maglor answered in his stead.

“We only want to bring him home.”

Hayley shook her head.

“He can’t go home. It’s like our old house; when we left we had to give the keys to the new people, and now we can never go back there. We are ix… err… e-exiled from it.”

* * *

Maglor couldn’t see his brother, but he felt him. Like all elves, he was sensitive to the energy of spirits, and he felt Caranthir like he had felt the anger in Thomas’ room. It sent shivers down his spine, sensing his brother so close after not having felt a familiar spirit in ages... He watched Hayley run to a seemingly empty corner of the room, and for a moment he thought he spotted someone there. When he blinked it was gone though, and he only saw the little girl hugging thin air. Despite everything, that brought a smile to his face. Little Hayley was a very perceptive child, and she accepted Caranthir’s presence with remarkably unbiased pragmatism. He was there, and that was it; she didn’t need more explanation. She understood him through some kind of intuitive osanwë, and even though he was not truly tangible to her, she seemed to be able to comfort him with her touch. From the things she had so innocently told him Maglor could tell that Hayley truly cared for his brother. She had said that Moryo was looking after her, but he had the feeling that she was looking after him even more…

When he regarded Thomas for some clue as to what had happened, he was met with an angry stare, and a voice suddenly sounded in his head.

_“You and I are going to have a serious conversation when this is over, mark my words!”_

Maglor couldn’t suppress a shudder. He was thousands of years old, but the chastising voice of his father could still make him feel like a naughty elfling. How could this young mortal sound exactly like Fëanor in mind? How was it possible? The Noldo suspiciously eyed Thomas, who apparently had no idea of the reaction he had caused. Exasperated, Maglor cursed to himself. Damned Valar and their missions… There had to be more to this task than Námo had told Thomas, he was sure of it. He also had the feeling that when they found out, neither of them was going to like it…

Meanwhile, Hayley was very affronted at Thomas for making her friend cry. She also seemed to have a strange idea of what exile entailed; knowing what he knew, Maglor didn’t know if it was funny or sad. Apparently Suzy hadn’t been so far off when she thought her daughter had difficulties adjusting to her new home…

“But if the new people gave you the keys back, you could return to your old house, no?”

“I… I guess…” Hayley paused, and Maglor smiled encouragingly.

“You told me Moryo is sad a lot. Don’t you want him to go home, to be with his family again?”

“But his family is dead, he told me so!”

He hesitated.

“So is Moryo, Hayley. He has been dead for a long time, that’s why no one can see him.”

The girl frowned, trying to make sense of that. Eventually she asked,

“Then will he go to heaven?”

She blinked at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Now what was he supposed to say to that? In the end, he just nodded.

“I think so. He will go somewhere safe, where there is no pain and he can be with his family again.”

Hayley thought about that.

“Will he not be sad anymore then?”

“Maybe a little bit at first, but less and less over time, because he’ll be with his brothers and his father again.”

“That is good, I think…”

Maglor took a look at Thomas, and figured that his “companion” would not be able to make much progress if Hayley continued to sit next to Caranthir like a vigilant guard dog. He wished he could do more for his brother… but he supposed he would have to trust Námo’s judgement and let Thomas do his job.

“Why don’t we go to the kitchen? Your mommy had some very good chocolate biscuits there, if I remember correctly…”

Hayley looked hesitatingly at the spot where Moryo sat. She was ready to protest.

“But I…”

“Thomas needs to talk to Moryo for a bit, alone. He won’t make him cry again.”

“Promise?”

“I can’t promise that, but I’m sure he will try his very best.”

“Oh… okay.”

* * *

“Moryo?”

Slowly, the spirit’s eyes focussed again. He tiredly looked at Thomas.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here for you. You’ve been exiled for long enough. It’s time to go home.”

The dead elf slowly shook his head.

“I failed…”

“No, you did all you could. No one could have asked more.”

“You asked more. You always did.”

Thomas hesitated for a moment, but then he decided to use the identity confusion to his advantage.

“I was wrong in that. I did not have the right to ask those things of you. It was I who failed you Moryo, not the other way round.”

Moryo’s eyes went wide with disbelief at that.

“But... we couldn’t… I didn’t…”

“Námo sent me for you. You don’t have to wander anymore.”

Thomas wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly he had a lap full of sobbing adult elf. Moryo had apparently forgotten he did not exactly have the same size as little Hayley… As he shifted to accommodate the weight, Thomas decided it at least proved that the dead were tangible to him. A little lost, he patted the spirit’s hair as he had seen the little girl do.

“There… there… Sssh… It’s all right…”

………………… 

_The polished stones were slick with blood, the air laden with the stench of death. The hall was filled with dead and dying, haphazardly splayed over the floor, bleeding out precious red as their life left them. He drew himself up as far as he managed, dragging his wounded body further while his trembling hands slipped in the puddles of blood. From the throne room, he heard the clamour of swords, shouting, vaguely familiar. The sounds were warped to his ears, and he barely registered them. They were no longer important._

_The room shifted, tilted... His arms had given out. The pain that had been dulled somehow flared up again, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Next to him, a laboured breath formed his name._

_“C-Caranthir…”_

_Curufin. He turned his head, meeting frightened eyes, glazed already with the veil of death._

_“I’m here.”_

_The pain was not important. He pulled his brother closer, until he felt the clammy skin of his face against his._

_“I-It’s so dark…” A rattling cough shook Curufin’s body, colouring his lips red. “S-so dark…”_

_“I’m here. It’s all right. Sssh.”_

_It wasn’t all right. It hadn’t been all right since they had left Aman and now it would never be all right again. But that wasn’t important now. He softly stroked matted black hair and bloodied skin, whispered calming words while his brother fought to breathe._

_“C-Caranthir… I-I’m s-scared…”_

_So was he. He didn’t say it._

_“Don’t be… d-don’t be scared. It w-will be over soon.”_

_Everything was silent all of a sudden. The stone canopy of Menegroth no longer echoed the sounds of battle. There were no more screams, no more clanking of metal on metal and metal on stone, no more moans of the dying. Night had fallen like a shroud, and the light didn’t shine through the trees anymore. It was so dark… Next to him, Caranthir heard a choking noise, a broken sigh. He softly patted his brother’s head._

_“There. It’s over.”_

_And it was. The last light disappeared behind the horizon, and everything went black._

 ……………..

Wow. That was… intense. Thomas’ heart was hammering in his chest… He closed his eyes and opened them again, just to make sure that he wasn’t dying on the floor of some forest-palace anymore. He still had Moryo –Or Caranthir, he wasn’t sure anymore- in his arms, but the elf’s crying had stilled and he now just sat curled up against Thomas’ chest. Which made for an odd position, as the elf was far taller than him. Thomas continued to stroke his hair, and wondered what he was supposed to do now.

As on cue, Maglor and Hayley entered the room again, followed by a worried Suzy. Hayley smiled when she saw them. Maglor just gave him an odd look, which he met with an angry stare. Sure, he probably looked bizarre at the moment, but he would like to see that elf when someone who was both invisible and at least a head taller than him was determined to fit on his lap. Not to mention that he still had an egg to peel with his “music therapist”; Maglor better have a good explanation for all this.

Hayley disturbed his thoughts when she sat down next to him and carefully reached out to the spirit, her small hand touching the ghost’s large one. With a soft voice she asked,

“Moryo… are you going home now?”

The dead elf turned, almost pushing Thomas over with the movement, and smiled softly at the young girl. He nodded, and Hayley’s smile widened as if he had spoken to her.

“I will be okay. I know how to fight now. You don’t have to worry.”

Next, she shook her head.

“Of course I will miss you. And I will never forget you.”

Even from in his uncomfortable position, Thomas thought it was heart-warmingly sweet. The ghost’s long, slender fingers caressed the small child’s hand held in his.

“I love you, Moryo. You were the bestest friend ever.” She bit her lip, and there was a tremor in her voice when she spoke again. “But you should go now, your family is waiting.”

And just like that, like a gust of wind, the spirit was gone. Thomas almost tumbled over when he was suddenly released of the weight.

_Well… that went better than I expected… I guess?_

He noticed Hayley was crying, and helplessly looked at Maglor… only to find that the elf looked as if he was about to cry as well.

 _Great. Just great._  

* * *

Maglor hadn’t known it was possible for a heart to feel like breaking and mending at the same time. Watching Thomas and Hayley, he could see Caranthir as well; distorted and vague as through a mist, but still clear enough to be recognizable. He didn’t dare to move his head for fear that the vision would disappear… and while he was watching, reality shifted around him. For a moment, the world froze and everything stilled… and in that single instant he saw the pain fade from Caranthir’s eyes, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled, a sight so rare that Maglor had almost forgotten what it looked like… and then he was gone.

It took him a couple moments to gather his wits. When he did, he saw that little Hayley was crying, big tears dripping over her cheeks. Next to him Suzy Holland whispered,

“Is… Is it gone?”

Maglor really wanted to say that his brother was not an It and that he would not stand for him being referred to as such… but he settled for a sigh and a nod. He walked up to Hayley, who regarded him with teary eyes. 

“He… He is really gone now, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He is gone.”

She sniffed.

“I… I already miss him.”

“You did well. I know it is very difficult to say goodbye to a friend.”

She nodded.

“I d-didn’t want him to be sad anymore.”

“I know.”

“Do you think he is happy now?”

Maglor didn’t know, but he nodded.

“I think so.”

He said it as much for himself as he did for her… She wiped away her tears and gave him a small, shaky smile.

“Good.”

 …………..

After that things were wrapped up rather quickly, and a little later they were sitting in the car again. Thomas was in a truly morose mood, refusing to say anything. Only when he noticed they took a wrong turn, he opened his mouth.

“That is not the road to the clinic.”

“I know.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“My house. There are some things we need to talk about.”

Thomas only huffed, eyes on the road again. Maglor sighed to himself. This would not be easy...

* * *

Caranthir slept peacefully, cradled against his father while the wounds in his fëa healed. Holding him, Fëanor was lost in memories.

Dear, awkward little Carnistir… The Spirit of Fire remembered hundreds of small things about his fourth son’s childhood. How he stamped his feet when he didn’t get his way, and hid behind Nerdanel’s skirts when there were guests, and how fascinated he had been by Nerdanel’s growing belly when she was having Curufin. The day he had made his first hunting knife, or that time he had run off in anger and Huan had returned him kicking and screaming by his collar. The countless times that he had turned a game of hide-and-seek into a panicked search by being too good at it. It were little things, flashes of a past long gone that Fëanor hadn’t even known his memory had retained. Yet now, as he held his son in his arms again for the first time in ages, it were those small, seemingly insignificant moments that filled his thoughts.

He looked up when a deep, disembodied voice drifted through the dark stones.

“As you can see, I uphold my end of the bargain.”

It was not so much a statement as it was an inquiry of sorts; sliding around him like silk ribbons or dark smoke, Fëanor felt the curiosity under the dispassionate words, probing for regrets and second thoughts. He ignored it, tenderly stroking his son’s hair.

_How could I regret this? I have sacrificed far more for far less a purpose… Of all I have done, this will be the last thing I ever regret._

“You have changed greatly.”

Fëanor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

 _I know._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really would like some feedback on how I wrote this.   
> I tried my very best to write Caranthir convincingly, but also truly damaged in mind and fëa by ages of bodiless wandering. I wanted to find a balance between the regression his mind went through, the painful memories and thoughts that hold bits of his old self, and his sense of being lost in a world he no longer understands. It wasn't easy, so as I said, feedback would be nice. 
> 
> Caranthir's attachment to Hayley is the last in a long row of such "friendships", in which he clung to a mortal child, driven by remnants of memories and the need to make up for not protecting his brothers. Sensitive children like Hayley could interact with him, and as Maglor noticed, this interaction also protected Caranthir from the worst of the mental decay. 
> 
> As to why Caranthir sees his father when he looks at Thomas, and why Thomas' mind-voice apparently sounds like Fëanor… more will be said on that later, but suggestions and guesses are welcome :)
> 
> I will answer questions gladly! :D


	3. Mugshots Of The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor gives Thomas the whole story, and a sword. Thomas on his part makes mugshots of the dead, and ponders death and loneliness.

Standing on the driveway of Maglor's house, Thomas finally popped the question he had been brooding on the entire trip.

"Are you his father?"

Maglor's looked at him in shock.

"What?"

"Are you Moryo's father?" He met the elf's eyes with an almost as intense gaze. "It's a simple question; are you, or are you not?"

Maglor had paled.

"No, I am not."

Thomas skeptically raised an eyebrow.

"I know you couldn't see him, but FYI, you look too much like him for it to be coincidence. Besides, if you really had never heard of this spirit before, why would you be emotional over him passing to the afterlife?"

"I wasn't…"

Thomas made a dismissive gesture.

"Don't give me that. Not understanding shit of what people say teaches you a thing or two about facial expressions, you know. You were emotional, don't deny it."

Maglor sighed in defeat.

"I was. But I am not his father." The elf looked at him sadly. "I am his brother."

_Wonderful._

"And you didn't think to mention that? Because really, this whole thing wasn't complicated enough without someone hiding vital information!"

"It was not vital…"

"It was obviously vital information, because I had to pretend to be your father to get him to cooperate!" He scowled. "Look, I get that this shit is personal to you. But guess what, because your stupid gods can't keep out of other people's business, it's personal to me too now! And I'm not going to exorcise one more ghost for you unless you tell me exactly what this thing is all about! And not some shady story about shiny rocks and wars in distant lands this time, I want details."

Thomas closed his eyes and tried to get his ire back under control.

"I'm sorry if I'm blunt, but if you want this thing to work, you'll have to work with me. I'm not going to keep doing this by best guess while you sit on all the answers."

"I don't "sit" on all the answers!"

"But you know more than I do, and since I'm the one doing the exorcising around here that's not exactly fair."

Maglor looked as if he had just swallowed something disgusting. After a short silence, he nodded curtly.

"Fine. Come inside, I'll tell you."

"And don't hold back on the drama. I want to know everything."

The elf let out a bitter, humourless chuckle.

"Trust me, if there's anything this story has no lack of, it's drama."

Maglor lived in a small but beautiful house in Art Nouveau style, the kind you sometimes saw featured in magazines for architecture and interior decoration. Everything about it breathed balance and subtle beauty… It wasn't pretentious or showroom-like though; on the contrary, Thomas didn't think he had ever been to so homey and inviting a place before. He might have been biased because he lived in a hospital, but there really was something special about the elf's home. He felt his anger calm at entering, almost as if the house itself comforted him... It was an odd but far from unpleasant sensation. Maglor too visibly relaxed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he turned around to him.

"Come on in. Do take off your shoes, I just cleaned."

…………………..

"And there, at the breaking of the world, I lost my last remaining brother. Maedhros threw himself in the fiery chasms, taking his Silmaril with him… And I… I cast mine away, into the sea. And that was the end of it."

With that, Maglor finished his tale. Thomas blinked at him, not quite knowing what to say. What did you say after a story like that? Hamlet had nothing on it!

"Wow. That… that was…" He shook his head, not being able to find the words. "I'm sorry."

Maglor shrugged.

"It was a long time ago."

Thomas wasn't fooled. He hadn't lied when he had told the elf that he was good at reading faces; it was easy to see that beneath his impassive mask, Maglor was very upset. However, he knew well enough what it was like to be caught in a moment of weakness, so he didn't call the Noldo out on it. Instead, he tried to bring the conversation to more practical matters.

"So, how many ghosts of your past are we after, exactly?"

Maglor sighed, his face shadowed by sudden weariness.

"My brothers. Perhaps my father too, I don't know. I believe it is the Oath that kept their spirits from passing to the Halls."

"Right… And do you think they will all be haunting convenient locations at riding distance from the clinic?"

He received a scowl at that.

"I don't know. I told you, I don't have all the answers. I don't know where we will find them, when, how, in what state, I don't know why Námo decided that now was the time to bring them back, I don't know why he messed with your life, I just don't know, okay? I'm as lost as you are!"

Thomas mentally slapped himself. He really shouldn't open his mouth when all he planned to do was sticking his foot in it.

"I didn't mean it like that. It's just that the world is big, technically they could be anywhere."

"If there is any logic in the Valar's actions, it might be that they chose to act now because at this time all the sought spirits are close together."

Maglor didn't sound as if he had much faith in the logical reasoning of the Valar… and Thomas completely understood the sentiment. After all, what logically reasoning deity would pick him for a mission like this?

* * *

It was hard. Thousands of years had passed, and it was still hard to speak about it. Maglor felt as if he had just thrown up, the words tasting like bitter bile in his mouth. Thomas had had a point, he had the right to know what he was dealing with… but it was hard, much harder than he had anticipated.  Speaking about the past had brought back things he had long pushed away for the sake of his own sanity… Amrod's broken body on the beach of Sirion. The look in Maedhros' eyes before he threw himself down. The ashes of his father caught in the wind. Curufin and Caranthir's last embrace in the halls of Menegroth. The crooked smile gracing Celegorm's dead lips. The screams he had later imagined to hear over the roaring fire in Losgar. Maglor clenched his burned hand. He could not escape the memories anymore now... 

On the couch, Thomas eyed him with a mixture of nervousness and worry. There was no anger in his expression, and it passed through Maglor's mind that the boy was rather handsome when he didn't glare as if the world had gravely offended him. However, the intense, inquisitive look Thomas had over him was so alike Fëanor that it sent a jolt of sudden recognition down his spine... And if he had understood the boy's words correctly, he wasn't the only one who had noticed the elusive, indefinable resemblance. 

"You said you pretended to be my father to make Caranthir cooperate." 

Thomas nodded. 

"Yeah. It wasn't even on purpose; he saw me and for some reason he thought I was his dad. In the end I just went with it, and that did the trick." 

"You… went with it?" 

He shrugged. 

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful or anything, I just said what felt right. I didn't really think much about it, it all sort of happened by itself." He looked at his feet. "He wanted forgiveness, you know. Moryo. He begged me for forgiveness, saying he had failed me." 

Maglor's nails dug into his skin hearing that. Unaware, Thomas continued. 

"I… I told him that it was all right, that he had done all he could, that he hadn't failed… I had no idea what it was all about, but I felt I had to tell him that. I think he really needed to hear it." Now Thomas looked at him again, apprehensively. "Your father… He wouldn't have forgiven him, would he? I mean… from what you told me, I take it that he wasn't exactly the type to ever admit he was wrong." 

Maglor bitterly smiled at that. 

"He was a troubled individual, my father." 

Thomas shook his head. 

"Yeah right, that's like saying Hitler somewhat disliked Jews. No offence, but your father sounds like he had issues the size of the sun." 

Maglor sighed. 

"You did not know him. I can't deny that he was a very difficult person, but he wasn't evil. In his own way he meant well, for all of us." 

He had to think that. He had to hold on to that thought, because the alternative was too painful to even consider. Thomas huffed. 

"Well, for what it's worth, I think he was a selfish bastard." 

_Yes, that he was. That he was indeed._

* * *

Thomas wondered if he had perhaps gone too far when Maglor suddenly got up. The elf didn't look as if he was about to defend his father's good name though. 

"Come along, there's something I want to show you." 

Maglor led him further into the house, into some sort of armoury. Two walls were decorated entirely with weapons of all kinds; glittering swords, old bows, daggers, spears, and even an antique musket, and Thomas didn't doubt that they had all been fervently used in their own time. On the wall right over the door hung a large baroque portrait of a serious man in an elegant 18th century outfit, complete with lacy ruches, brocade and curly wig. It was rather fascinating to see that someone could look so grave and so ridiculous at the same time… Thomas looked at Maglor, who was thoughtfully considering the wall of weaponry, and at the portrait, and then at Maglor again, and couldn't suppress a snigger.  The elf turned, and seeing what had drawn Thomas' attention he solemnly said, 

"The 18th century was a very trying time, sartorially speaking. I didn't think my scalp would ever recover from them hard-handedly removing all my hair. Also, if you think that outfit looks ridiculous, you should have seen me in the 16th century. Thankfully no one thought to capture that for posterity." 

The laughter that followed was relieving, and Thomas felt the awkward tension between them break. 

"What is the worst thing you've ever had to wear?" 

Most seriously, the elf stated, 

"A giant codpiece. It also served as a pocket for my coin purse." 

Thomas tried to imagine it, and burst out laughing again. 

"So you had to reach into your crotch to get your money?" 

"Exactly. And it was entirely socially acceptable." 

Thomas shook his head. 

"Damn… People were weird…" 

"Not weirder than they are now, believe me." 

Thomas still chuckled a bit, but the light atmosphere changed when Maglor reached into a drawer and took out a long object wrapped in silk. He carefully handled it, as if it might break any moment, and slowly removed the fabric to reveal a gleaming sword with an elegantly curved blade. A deep sigh escaped him. 

"A blade is the sharpest retort." 

Thomas raised his eyebrows at that. 

"What?" 

"That is what my father said when he showed us his work. We didn't understand it right away… The concept of an object solely for the purpose of ending other life was something frighteningly new, and the things it made possible… they hadn't even been contemplated before." 

The elf seemed lost in thought, his fingers tracing the graceful curve of the blade. Thomas couldn't help but feel drawn to it… 

"It's beautiful." 

Maglor nodded, and once again there was something old and weary in his voice when he spoke. 

"Yes… yes it is. All that my father made was beautiful. Even the most rudimentary utensil he crafted had a touch of refinement. He wouldn't stand for ugliness… for imperfection... All his creations had to be flawless." He beckoned Thomas to come closer, and handed him the sword. "Here. Hold it."

Thomas' eyes widened. 

"But… I can't…" 

Maglor shook his head. 

"You won't damage it. I assure you it's quite sturdy. Just be careful of the blade, it's still sharp." 

The sword was surprisingly lightweight for something so large. Thomas eyed it suspiciously. The hilt felt comfortable and warm in his hand, and the blade seemed to hum with anticipation… It was almost as if the metal responded to his touch. The feeling would have been alarming if it hadn't been accompanied by a strange sense of familiarity. He slowly moved his hand, watching the light reflect on the glistening blade as on a precious gem. A shiver ran down his back. Part of him felt instinctively repulsed by the sword, wanted to throw it back on the silk and never touch it again… but at the same time, something deep inside him never wanted to let go of it. 

"This was my father's sword." 

Maglor's sad voice broke him from his musings. Thomas quickly put the blade back on its silken sheet, feeling both relief and regret at the weight leaving his hand. The elf gave him a strange look. 

"I think you should have it." 

Thomas' mouth fell open. Of all things he had expected, this was not it. 

"What? But… You can't do that; it's your father's sword! Isn't it like… an heirloom or something? And what the hell would I do with it?" 

The Noldo was adamant despite his protests. 

"I still think you should have it. Lying in this drawer it is of no use to anyone." 

Yeah, and lying under his mattress it would be so useful. Thomas frowned at the elf. 

"What is the meaning of this?" 

"Call it a presentiment." Maglor wrapped the sword again and handed it to him. "It might prove useful to you one of these days." 

The thought that he might need a sword some time soon was not exactly reassuring… and the fact that said sword had belonged to Maglor's infamous dad didn't sit well with him either. Thomas didn't trust it, at all. There was something else that Maglor wasn't telling him, and he didn't like it one bit... 

* * *

He didn't really know why he had shown Thomas the sword, what he had thought to prove with it… He also didn't know why he had all of a sudden known for sure that the sword had to go to the boy. It might have been because of his perfect grip on the hilt right from the moment he picked it up, the sword lying as comfortable in his hand as a pen or a piece of cutlery. Most people held a sword wrongly the first time they took it up; teaching the right way was usually the first lesson in weapons training. That Thomas, who Maglor suspected had never even seen a sword from close-by before, instinctively knew how to do it was nothing short of incredible. 

No one had used Fëanor's sword after his death; it had simply felt wrong. Not even Curufin, who was most alike him, had felt at ease with it in his hand. It was sometimes said that elven blades were picky in who they allowed to handle them, that once a blade had been forged and used in battle, it became attuned to the personality of its owner, making it unsuitable for people of different temperament. Maglor had certainly believed that to be true for his father's blade… To him the sword had always felt contrary, as if it would wriggle out of his hand were it able to do so. That Thomas seemingly had no such experiences only strengthened Maglor's idea that he should have it. 

Maglor couldn't really put his finger on what made Thomas so alike his father sometimes, but it had to be something more fundamental than a lisped s and a couple uncanny mannerisms, or Moryo's spirit wouldn't have confused them, and Fëanor's blade would not have fit so perfectly in his hand. What had the Valar planned with this? He kept pondering on the issue all the way back to the clinic, and from the fact that Thomas didn't even complain when he had to put on his "address card" again, he took that his companion was at least as preoccupied... 

* * *

Smuggling the sword into the hospital had required surprisingly little smuggling. He had simply walked in with the silk-wrapped package under his arm, and no one had even asked what it was. Supposedly they didn't think anyone would give something potentially dangerous to a speech-impaired retard… Putting the sword on the bottom of his clothes rack, Thomas wondered what he was supposed to do now.  The day had brought a lot of new impressions, many of which he didn't quite know how to process. He had met and "exorcised" his first ghost, found out that his speech therapist had a life story to rival most Greek myths, received a mysterious elven sword along with the promise that he would have to use it someday… Looking back on all that, he should congratulate himself for staying so relatively calm! Relatively being the key word there. 

He decided to draw to release some of his nervousness. Not for the sake of shocking the nurses this time, just to clear his head. He didn't start with a clear image in mind, but his pen hadn't hit the paper or Caranthir's features took form on it. Frowning in anger, staring emptily, sucking his thumb, smiling at Hayley… As impossible it had been to draw the face of Námo, so easy it was to give shape to Maglor's brother. Thomas didn't quite know why he kept drawing the spirit, but it eased his mind. He dearly hoped not every "exorcism" would wind him up like this, or he might just get a burnout before he was even half through Maglor's doomed family… 

…………….

Life went on. Thomas' language classes slowly progressed, and at least once a week Maglor took him out to hunt for ghosts. Quite often the person who had contacted them didn't have a supernatural problem, only a creaky floor and an overactive imagination… yet there were real cases too. The spirits he encountered were usually more "ghostly" than what he had seen from Moryo; they aimlessly wandered places they had once known, no longer aware of their present surroundings, causing disturbances mostly by accident. 

There were angry spirits, who cried and hit things and yelled for people who were long forgotten by the world. Their anger and resentment had consumed their thoughts for so long that now it was all they had left. It were those who generally caused trouble for the current inhabitants of a place, and as such they were the kind Thomas most frequently got to see. There were other spirits too though; sad ones whose pathetic sobs would echo through empty hallways, souls so faded that they didn't even remember why they were still around, small children blissfully oblivious of their own decease… Thomas found that no matter how different they looked, they all had one thing in common. Loneliness. With every spirit he helped, he became more aware of how heartbreakingly lonely they all were, how much they longed for someone to see them, to hear them, to listen to them. Usually all they needed to pass on was someone they could perceive, someone to hold their hand and make them feel like they weren't completely alone. Even the angriest soul would eventually give in to it, their need for contact greater than their rage. It always left Thomas feeling empty. He knew too well what it was like to be stuck like that, without contact or communication…

One day, he made a comment about it to Maglor. 

"You know, it's like being dead." 

"What is?" 

"Not being able to communicate." 

"Oh. Well, you have made much progress in English; you should be able to make yourself understood in rudimentary conversation now. If you keep practicing, your communication abilities will improve greatly." 

The elf didn't understand it and Thomas didn't know how to properly explain it, so he just nodded. 

_Sometimes I think I can speak to spirits because I understand what it is like to be dead. That makes no sense, because I've never been dead… but at times, it does feel that way._

* * *

"I don't know what you do to him, but it works wonders. He is so calm and collected these days, the people who knew him before hardly believe the changes!"

Anita Beardsley was quite lyrical about Thomas' progress, although she mostly applauded him no longer cursing at the caretakers. Maglor smiled. "I am always happy to help." 

"You certainly helped, Mr Smith. Have you ever considered writing a book about your methods?" 

"I'm afraid not, as I do not really have "methods". My approach is entirely person- and case-based; there is unfortunately no miraculous formula to aid all the speech impaired. Sometimes I can help someone, other times all I do is in vain." 

"That's a pity... But still, I'm happy that you could do something for Mr Ashworth. We had somewhat given up on him before you came." She smiled. "Forgive me my curiosity, but where do you take him when you go out?" 

Maglor shrugged. 

"Oh, nowhere special. A zoo, a mall, a funfair… Simply being around people and feeling he still is a part of society does a lot to reduce his anger." 

It was a sound excuse for their frequent road-trips… but after saying it Maglor realized it was also rather close to the truth. Dr Beardsley pensively nodded. 

"Yes, that… that indeed makes sense." She looked at him with unhidden admiration. "You must be truly dedicated to your work to put so much effort in your patients." 

"I like to think I am." 

"Well, Thomas is lucky to have you as his therapist. It takes a special kind of person to get through to those who can't communicate." 

Thinking about Thomas' ability to speak to the dead, Maglor nodded. It indeed took a special kind of person… 

"How is he today?" 

"He draws, and thankfully not just corpses anymore. He has taken up portraits lately. I won't say those aren't disturbing, because they really are, they're so lifelike they give me the chills… but at least it's not all blood and gore anymore, that should count for something." 

"Good to hear that." 

Entering Thomas' room, he found that there were indeed less gruesomely detailed drawings of mangled bodies lying around… But Maglor had to agree with the blonde doctor that what replaced them was no less unsettling. The portraits of various men, women and children didn't lack for realism, but somehow, in some way, Thomas had managed to capture that lost, lonely feeling of being dead and forgotten in them. Eerie was the least you could call it. 

_ If the Maiar of Mandos were to take mug shots of the dead, this is what it would probably look like.  _

Regarding the drawings, he suddenly caught sight of a familiar face. There, between sketches of an elderly lady in a regency dress and a young boy, hung a striking portrait of Caranthir. It was drawn in pencil, but Maglor didn't think a photo could have caught his brother's likeness any better. Seeing it, his heart tightened in his chest. Thomas had never known Caranthir in life, and yet he had managed to draw him exactly as he was, catching his essence on paper without ornament or exaggeration. Maglor almost couldn't believe it. 

"Can I have that one?" 

Thomas looked up from his sketchpad, a little startled, and seeing what Maglor pointed at he nodded. 

"Sure, go ahead. Also, do you always sneak around like that? I didn't hear you enter, like, at all." 

"Elven trait. We have very silent footsteps." 

"Oh. Useful." Thomas exchanged his sketchpad for his laptop.  "By the way, I checked our inbox, and we have some new ghost-alerts. From what I understood of them some might be interesting."

After putting the portrait in his bag, Maglor sat down next to Thomas to check their "ghost-alerts", as the boy had dubbed them. He turned out to be right; they had indeed received some seemingly legit messages. One especially drew Maglor's attention… 

…. 

_ Hey people of Smith&Ashworth,  _

_ I hope you don't think this is ridiculous or anything, but I think there is paranormal stuff going on in my place of work. Lately I finally got permission from my boss to have it investigated, and you sort of felt like the right men for the job. You certainly seemed more genuine than Madame Soleil and her tarot cards, for all that says ;)  _

_ I work part time in a dog shelter (yeah, I know, what kind of ghost haunts a dog shelter, right?) and there have been strange things going on here for far longer than any of the current employees remember. Cages of dogs that are about to be terminated mysteriously open at night, people –including myself- have heard a person crying while there was no one else in the building, some people claim to have seen apparitions, and lately someone was attacked but no one knows by what. That is, by the way, the reason why I got permission to have our resident "ghost" investigated.  _

_ One of our caretakers, the one who usually does the termination of pets who didn't get adopted in time, went into a cage to pick up a dog when suddenly something flew at his throat. (And it wasn't the dog.) He got away with some scratches, but he claimed he had felt teeth and hands, as if his invisible attacker had been a person. Most of my colleagues think he was a couple cans short of a six-pack that evening and just stumbled over his own feet, but my boss is fairly open-minded so he let me have a shot at this. For the record, I really think we have a ghost of some sort.  _

_ I do hope you take me seriously. It's not so much that I want the ghost gone per se, but the crying I've heard always sounds so sad, I can't imagine he/she/it is content in our shelter. Please let me know if you think you can help.  _

_ Best wishes,  _

_ Caroline Dubois  _

…... 

Maglor knew it, the same way he had known it when he read Suzy Holland's message, and this time he had no doubt which one of his brothers they were after.

_ Oh Celegorm… what has happened to you?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's Apologies)
> 
> So, this chapter had some things that needed to be said before we could continue with the Great Fëanorian Ghost Hunt. First of all, there is Thomas finally hearing Maglor's story, which is fairly important given that until now he didn't really know what his mission was all about.
> 
> And then there is the sword, another piece of the puzzle that is Thomas' bizarre resemblance to Fëanor… Thomas had to come into possession of the sword before we could continue, because he IS going to need it in the coming chapters.
> 
> I also made mention of Thomas "exorcising" other ghosts than the Fëanorians. This is sort of important for the way his character will develop. 
> 
> (Also, for those who are interested, Maglor's 18th century outfit is called a "Habit A La Française", which was very much in fashion at the time. It came in simple and more decorated forms, but for a portrait people generally pulled out all their adornments, so you can assume that Maglor was as ridiculously decked out in frills as humanely (elvishly?) possible. Wigs, also called perukes, were usually made of their owner's own hair, hence why Maglor refers to having all his hair shaven off. It was easier and more hygienic at the time to maintain a bald head and a wig rather than an actual head full of fashionable curls. The coinpurse-codpiece was also a real thing, very big (literally) in the 16th century. Just look up a picture of King Henry VIII and you'll get the gist of it. ==> Thank you Fashion Studies course, for this informative interlude!)
> 
> Further on, we have some feels, some angst, Thomas being blunt as usual, and the introduction to next chapter's subject. I want to hear what you think about it!
> 
> Am I still readable? Are my characters still in character? What are your suggestions and theories on Thomas and Fëanor? Did I make horrible errors somewhere? Do tell me! I love comments!


	4. Must Love Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating paranormal activity in a local dog shelter, Thomas and Maglor find out firsthand that dead elves have teeth and know how to use them...

Maglor was even tenser now than he had been for their first excursion… Thomas wondered why. Of course, nobody liked to hear that their brother lived in a dog shelter and violently attacked people, but how much worse than Moryo could it be? This Celegorm might be somewhat less docile than his brother because he lacked an adorable toddler to rein him in, but technically his spirit shouldn’t be in much worse condition than Caranthir’s; they had died on the same day and in the same manner after all. No, Thomas didn’t think there was much reason to worry.

_Maglor worries enough for the two of us anyway._

At the dog shelter, a tiny woman with greying black hair and big horn glasses enthusiastically greeted them. They had only just informed after Caroline Dubois, when she excitedly exclaimed,

“Oh! You must be the paranormal investigation people!”

There was something rather grandmotherly about her, and Thomas decided on the spot that he liked her. She was really very small though; when she came from behind her desk her head barely reached past Maglor’s waist. A little awkwardly, the elf looked down on her.

“Yes, indeed. Are you Caroline Dubois?”

The little receptionist shook her head.

“Oh no, I’m Mathilda, I just do the administration here. Caroline asked me to wait you up because she still had some things to do. She should be here any minute now!”

And indeed, Mathilda hadn’t finished her sentence or a door banged open, showing a dishevelled and slightly out-of-breath young woman.

“Oh my God I’m so late! Tilly, are they here already?”

She had just the slightest French accent, Thomas noted. Her auburn hair was caught in a messy bun, her clothes and cheeks were stained with dirt, and she was still wearing cleaning gloves. Her already flushed face turned a shade redder when she caught sight of them.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I still had some cages to clean out and I forgot the time. I’m sorry! I hope I wasn’t too long?”

Maglor amiably smiled at her.

“No need to apologize, we had only just arrived. Miss Dubois, I suppose?”

“Eh, yes, that’s me. Just Caroline is fine. You must be Mr…”

“Smith. Maka Smith. This is my companion, Thomas Ashworth. He doesn’t know English very well yet, so I will translate for him.”

“Oh, okay, no problem.” She hesitated. “Is there anything you need to know before…?”

“We will see; if we need anything we will ask. First we need to establish that there is in fact paranormal activity here.”

“All right, just come along then!”

Thomas found himself looking at Caroline as she led them into the shelter. Underneath her stained clothes she had a perfect hourglass figure: shapely hips, a slender waist, and a generous bosom. There was a skip in her step, and her breasts bounced a little when she walked… Watching her, he all of a sudden felt the urge to pull her against him and let his hands run over her curves, bite the soft skin of her neck, free those unruly auburn curls from her bun and bury his face in them… He startled at his own thoughts, shaking his head to remove the images before they could affect other parts of his anatomy. Where the hell did that come from?

“Here we are.”

Barking, whining, and the scent of dog poop filled the air.  Without him noticing, they had walked through a corridor full of small compartments with all kinds of dogs locked behind doors of translucent plastic, to stop before an empty one. The sight that awaited him there successfully removed all thoughts of Caroline’s luscious hips and dancing curls from his mind…

_Oh. My. God. Or Gods, whatever. This is really bad._

How much worse than Moryo could it be? The answer was obviously “Much worse.”

In a corner of the cage sat the scruffiest, most dishevelled being Thomas had ever laid eyes on, dead or alive. His clothes were ratty and torn, and from beneath a bush of matted hair in a shade that must have been blonde once, a pair of wild eyes glared at him. The only thing that showed this being was an elf were the pointed ears that stuck through the mess of knots and tangles...

Thomas shivered when he looked the ghost in the eyes… for there was nothing human in them. He knew it was a strange observation to make of a being that was never human to begin with, but he didn’t know how else to put it. Maglor’s brother had the gaze of an animal.   

“So, do you think we have a ghost?”

Caroline’s cheerful voice drew him from his thoughts. He nodded.

“Yes. You… have ghost.”

Internally he cringed at his accent, but the girl didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, cool. What kind of ghost is it?”

Maglor interceded before he could stumble over another answer.

“We do not classify spirits, we only try to help them pass on. We do need a little privacy for that.”

Despite Maglor’s somewhat cold rebuke, Caroline wasn’t offended in the least.

“Sure, I have stuff to do anyway. There might come people in here who want to adopt a dog though, if that’s okay? I’ll tell them not to disturb you.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Thomas looked at the unkempt elf in the corner of the cell, unsure of how to approach this. Caranthir had been a little cracked, but at least he hadn’t looked as if he shat where he sat… As if Celegorm had heard his thoughts the elf suddenly turned his head, producing a low, threatening sound.

_Was that… a growl?_

* * *

He couldn’t feel his brother. Unlike Caranthir’s presence, he couldn’t sense Celegorm. His little brother had always been good at concealing himself, and perhaps the many dogs around them were causing interference… but still, it wasn’t a good sign, and neither was the look of shock on Thomas’ face when he saw the seemingly empty cage. Wavering between wanting and not wanting to know, Maglor nervously coughed.

“Do you think you can…?”

He left the sentence unfinished, and when Thomas deeply sighed, his fears were confirmed.

“I… I honestly don’t know. It’s kind of bad…” The boy hesitated, apparently unwilling to say more. “Does your brother have other names than Celegorm?”

Maglor nodded, trying to imagine what “kind of bad” entailed.

“Tyelkormo. Turkafinwë. Tyelko or Turko, when he was younger.”

“Did he have a preference?”

“He liked his mothername best.”

Thomas, who didn’t know about the Noldorin naming system, questioningly raised an eyebrow.

“Which is?”

“Tyelkormo. Our fathernames all end in Finwë; it was to honour our grandfather, the founder of our family. Our mothernames were more personal.”

“So your father- and mothernames are a bit like first and last names here?”

“A little, perhaps. Both could be used as a first name, depending on personal preference.”

Thomas slowly nodded, and Maglor wondered why they were even having this conversation. He curiously looked at the boy.

“What will you do?”

Thomas shrugged.

“I’ll just go in and improvise, I guess…”

“Do I need to leave?”

He shrugged again.

“Not really, but… could you not stand in front of the glass? I mean; this stuff is awkward enough without spectators.”

“All right. I’ll just wait at the end of the corridor. Call me if you need anything.”

Maglor quickly turned away. It was tempting to stay, to watch and hope for a glimpse of his brother… but he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what had become of Celegorm.

His third brother had always been strange, standing out with his blonde locks as much as with his behaviour… If he hadn’t inherited their father’s quick tongue and infamous temper, people could have doubted his parentage. Maglor sighed. The people knew nothing. Celegorm had inherited much more from their father than just his temper… Even in Valinor his spirit had been restless, bothered by dark dreams and insomnia, uncontrolled rage and unexplainable melancholia. It had been like a sickness at times, even though Maglor hadn’t seen it as such.

 _No one walks the same path in life_ , their mother had said when he had asked her why Celegorm talked to squirrels and ran through the forest without shoes. _Maitimo doesn’t take harp lessons either, does he? You are all different._ It had made sense to him at the time, and so he had never commented on Celegorm’s lengthy disappearances into the woods, the giant hound that had used his favourite harp as a chew-toy, the bizarre rumours of what Oromë’s followers got up to in the light of Telperion, or any of the other unusual things about his little brother. Over time, he had become so used to Celegorm’s antics that he hadn't even thought them strange anymore…

But then the Darkening had happened. It had been the onslaught of madness… In the darkness insanity had worn a guise of reason and courage, and their plans, such folly in daylight, had seemed feasible under the cover of night. Maglor closed his eyes at the memory. They had all been mad, having lost their minds to the dark around them and the fire in their hearts… And Celegorm had been…

“AAAAAAAARRRRRGHHH!”

The scream broke Maglor with a shock from his gloomy thoughts, and immediately he ran back to the compartment where Thomas had been busy. Thomas lay in a strange position on the concrete floor: on his back, knees against his chest, holding one arm protectively over his face while trying to push something invisible away from him with the other.

Maglor immediately pulled Thomas out of the cage while the boy was violently kicking his unseen attacker. Only when the cage was closed again, he stopped screaming. Maglor grabbed him by the shoulders.

“What happened? Thomas, tell me what happened!”

The boy was pale, shaky, and apparently in pain, but that didn’t stop him from being snarky. He glared at Maglor, uttering with clenched teeth,

“N-Next time I’m bringing the sword.”

“What did he do?”

Thomas was clasping his arm, and only now the Noldo noticed there was blood seeping through the fabric of the sleeve. He pulled the boy’s hand away, revealing the bloody imprint of a full set of teeth. His mouth fell open.

“Celegorm bít you?”

Thomas shakily nodded.

“T-That he d-did.”

_Dear Valar._

* * *

 

“Wow. Just… wow.” Caroline shook her head in disbelief as she handed Maglor the first aid kit. “Ghosts can bite?”

Thomas, who had recovered a bit from the shock, glowered at Maglor.

“Yes, ghosts can bite, and hard at that.”

The elf ignored him, disinfecting and bandaging the wound. Dispassionately, he remarked,

“You’re lucky the wound is bleeding so much, it lowers the chance of infection.”

Thomas could tell Maglor was shaken by the events, but he didn’t feel like being considerate at the moment.

“Yeah right. Does your brother have rabies by any chance? I’d like to know before I’m foaming at the mouth.”

Maglor glared back and suddenly tightened the bandage, making Thomas yelp.

“Hey! What was that for?”

With a deceptively even voice, the elf stated,

“My brother does not have rabies.”

Thomas glared indignantly at him… but then his anger deflated. He shrugged.

“Ah well, if he thought I was your father I can’t really blame him. If my dad had ever treated me like yours did… Hell, I would bite him too!”

They looked at Caroline, who was curiously following their Quenya conversation. Noticing their glances she remarked,

“I really didn’t know ghosts could bite, or I would have given you a break stick or something…” She looked inquiringly at Maglor. “Is the ghost gone now?”

The tension seeped through in Maglor’s voice when he sharply answered,

“No. He is not gone. We don’t really know how to approach this one.” He glared at her. “It would be appreciated it if you could keep this incident private. We absolutely don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

Caroline nodded, a little unsettled by Maglor’s icy demeanour.

“Sure, my lips are sealed, Mr Smith.” She then shook her head again, whispering to herself, “Biting ghosts…”

Again, Thomas’ eyes were drawn to her, appraisingly travelling over her figure. Something about Caroline Dubois was extremely attractive, causing his mind to cook up all kinds of enticing and embarrassing images of hands and other appendages roaming where they in this case most definitely shouldn’t. It was more than a little frustrating…

_I come across a random female somewhat around my age, and suddenly my body decides it wants to mate with her. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

Living in a hospital must be really bad for his hormones. Maybe he was turning into one of those creepy perverts who salivated over anything remotely resembling a woman… Thomas tried to imagine Dr Beardsley naked, and thankfully shuddered in distaste. Good, there was still hope then.

Having that settled, he thought about the task at hand. Thomas really didn’t feel like getting mauled by a crazy ghost, but he couldn’t abandon the job either. He had to find a way to get rid of the spirit, if not for Maglor and his pantheon of meddlesome gods, then for the safety of the people who worked in the shelter. But how was he ever going to get Maglor’s mordacious brother to the afterlife without sustaining more injury?

His mind spun over the options. Would he be able to muzzle a ghost? Probably not. Maybe he should ask the elf for protective measures; he wanted to bet he had a suit of armour somewhere. Or he could try to distract the spirit with a shiny toy or something? Thomas immediately discarded that thought.

_No, bad idea. Extremely bad idea._

In the end, he just sat down outside the cage, warily eyeing Celegorm while Maglor nervously paced another part of the shelter. The spirit sat curled up in his corner, looking a bit out of it. Thomas wondered if any of his kicks had managed to hit target… He certainly hoped so. If ghosts were able to bite him, he should be able to kick them in the nuts too. For a while he just sat there, but eventually he took his sketchbook from his bag and started drawing to get rid of the stress he felt. In a few pencil strokes he had Celegorm’s features on paper; intensely glaring eyes underneath shaggy long hair, sunken cheeks, a chiseled jawline… Thomas could tell that Celegorm had been a beautiful elf once. He was also a very grateful model; apart from the occasional snarl or flick of his ear the elf didn’t move, and he also didn’t request to see the drawing before it was finished, letting Thomas work undisturbedly. The sketch became a detailed portrait, and soon more followed. Celegorm’s cramped pose alone was already worth a whole anatomy study…

“Is that the ghost?”

He startled, finding Caroline standing behind him with two cups of coffee. He nodded, and she smiled warmly. Crouching down, she handed him a mug.

“I didn’t know if you took sugar or milk or nothing at all, so I just brought everything. Take your pick.” With her now free hand she reached into the pocket of her hoody and offered him a handful of plastic spoons and small packets of milk, sugar, and cookies. Thomas hadn’t entirely understood what she had said, but the inviting gesture could not be misinterpreted. He carefully took a spoon, some sugar, and a cookie.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They looked at each other. For a moment, something awkward hung between them… and then, before he could stop himself, Thomas reached out with his hand, wiping some of the dirt from Caroline’s cheek. Clumsily, he stated,

“You have… thing on your face.”

His fingers rested just long enough on her face to feel her skin flush. A warm blush spread over her cheeks as she nervously smiled.

“Oh. Eh… I… I’m...”

He playfully raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?”

“I s-should go… ”

Thomas, who suddenly felt extremely confident, patted the spot next to him.

“You can sit here? Take break?”

And, very much to his surprise, she sat down next to him.

“Okay.”

_Smooth... I don’t know what that was or where the hell it came from, but let’s hope it’s here to stay!_

They sat together, and Thomas drew. As he finished yet another drawing of Celegorm, Caroline remarked,

“Poor thing. He makes me think of a mistreated pet.”

He questioningly looked at her.

“Mis-treated pet?”

“Yes, a pet that was treated very badly by its previous owners. We get them here a lot, unfortunately. Neglect, starvation, sometimes even actual torture… it’s really sick what people dare to do to their dogs. Your drawing… it makes me think of that. He looks like he’s in a lot of pain.”

Thomas slowly nodded. As usual, he hadn’t understood every word, but he got the gist of it. A badly treated animal… Yes, that was indeed a good description of Celegorm’s current state. He wondered…

“How… How to help pet when is… mis-treated?”

“Mistreated pets can be dangerous, because they are very distrustful. They believe everyone is going to hurt them, and they attack because they are scared… However, if you show them that you aren’t threatening, and manage to win their trust, they can be helped.” She sighed. “Sadly, a small shelter like this doesn’t have the resources to re-condition mistreated dogs, and they are often put down for being unsociable and aggressive. It always breaks my heart; if I had the money for it I would adopt them all in a heartbeat.”

With anyone else it would have frustrated him to no end, having conversation while he didn’t understand half of what was said and couldn’t contribute more than stammered bits of broken English… but with Caroline, he didn’t mind it so much for some reason. He liked that she didn’t slow her speech or articulated extra well to accommodate him; it was refreshing to for once talk to someone who didn’t make a big deal of his problem. Not to mention that what he understood of what she said really made sense. Trying to win Celegorm’s trust by showing he wasn’t threatening? Thomas thought he was already doing a pretty good job at that; he hardly made for a menacing sight while sitting in front of the cell with his sketchpad… He looked at the ghost and wondered what was going on in his head. Did he still think in words, or were his thoughts as animal as his behaviour suggested? Could he still understand language? Thomas felt a strange kinship with Celegorm at the thought that the spirit might not understand his own tongue anymore...

_What would I do, if I were in his place? If I were that scared, that lost? What would help me?_

Thomas thought deeply, and as his pencil once more sketched the elf’s messy shock of tangled curls, he got an idea.

“Caroline… I have ask. Eh, question.” 

* * *

 

Maglor had paced through the shelter so much already that the dogs didn’t even do the effort to bark anymore when he passed by. His thoughts were with Celegorm… The blonde had been a hasty riser indeed. First to swear, first to carry out their father’s order in Losgar, first to call for battle against their own again after Alqualondë… He had been called both the fairest and the cruellest of Fëanor’s children. But… before all that, Tyelko had been his first little brother. Maglor sighed. He hadn’t been too excited about being a big brother at the time… His mind had been with his music, and he had rarely made time for the elfling. Perhaps if Celegorm had had an interest in song it would have been different, but as it was he had often ignored the little one in favour of his compositions. And when they had grown older Celegorm had hardly ever been at their house, roaming the forest for a meal rather than coming home in time for dinner. They had never been close.  Would things have been different if they had been, if he had known him better? Maglor immediately pushed the thought aside.  Pondering over the “What If’s” of his life had never amounted to much good. Right now, the only important thing was for Thomas to succeed in leading his little brother to the Halls, preferably without extra encounters with said brother's teeth. 

* * *

 

The cage was open now, but Thomas hadn’t changed position. He still sat in front of it with his sketchbook, only now without barrier to keep Celegorm from throwing himself at him.

_Look. Not threatening. I don’t want to hurt you. Feel free to come closer._

He was nervous, but managed not to show it. If he had been a poker player, he would have been so good… He continued to draw, and slowly yet steadily, the ghost crept closer. Thomas didn’t look up, but he could almost feel the spirit approach him, making his skin crawl with discomfort…

_Don’t bite me don’t bite me please don’t bite me…_

Suddenly, his sketchbook was pulled out of his hands with surprising strength. Celegorm had taken hold of it, twitching fingers tracing the almost finished portrait Thomas had been working on. A soft, sad wail escaped him, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes, that’s you. Not exactly looking your best, huh?”

From under the heap of matted hair, he was met with a pair of frightened, confused eyes. Though still wild, he thought the ghost’s gaze was already less animal than before… That was positive; perhaps his absurd plan would have a chance of success after all.

“You don’t have to look like this, you know.”

Thomas carefully reached behind him for the things he had asked Caroline, and put them in front of him, at a sufficient distance from his person.

“Do you know what these are for?”

The young woman had been a little surprised when she had understood what he wanted, but had obliged anyway, bringing him a selection of dog grooming tools. It would probably be more dignified to use combs and brushes for humans, but as those weren’t available (and Celegorm’s hair looked like it would need heavy machinery anyway) what he had would have to do. The spirit looked at the combs, then at Thomas, and then at the combs again. He was obviously weighing his options. Thomas shrugged.

“I know it’s not ideal… but if you let me, I can probably make you look like less of a mess.”

Probably. He had no experience giving makeovers to ghosts, so he had no idea if it was possible to change the way they looked in the first place… Whether he understood that or not, Celegorm still came closer again, abandoning the sketchbook in favour of the pinwire brush. He carefully touched it, cocking his head to the side as if trying to remember what the thing was for. Eventually he pushed it towards Thomas.

“I take it you approve?”

He didn’t receive an answer, but the elf’s helpless expression said all he needed to know.

“Well then. Let’s do this. But no biting, all right?”

_…… …… …… …..._

_This is the weirdest thing I have ever done in my entire life. Ever. If it gets any weirder than this, I quit._

Thomas shook his head to himself while he carefully worked a matting comb through the thick tangles of Celegorm’s mane. So far, the elf had been surprisingly docile, only whining softly when the comb pulled on a particularly big knot. Not for the first time, Thomas didn’t quite know what to think of it all. He probably looked ridiculous, combing and brushing what was thin air for all onlookers... Good thing that Caroline had gone back to work, and that Maglor was… well, wherever he was, which wasn’t there.

Celegorm had a lot of hair, and disentangling it was no small chore. Thomas tried not to think about how cold his ass was or how badly his legs were sleeping from sitting on the concrete floor, and gradually worked his way through the muddle of mats and snarls. Progress was made slowly, but it was there; there were fewer knots in the spirit’s hair with every round of brushing, and the colour of it looked healthier too. When he was finally satisfied with his work, Thomas cheerfully remarked,

“That’s much better, isn’t it?”

The reaction was not what he had expected. Celegorm had been calm and even relaxed during the brushing, but now he tensed up again, trembling. Instinctively, Thomas pulled him closer, temporarily omitting all thoughts of bloody bite wounds. He softly stroked the spirit’s hair.

“What is it, Tyelko? Can you tell me?”

He startled when Celegorm looked at him; the clouded, wild haze was gone from spirit’s eyes, replaced by pure anguish. A broken sob escaped the elf and he violently shook in Thomas’ arms.

“T-they… a-all… leave… m-me.”

The words were choked out with great effort, as if the spirit had forgotten how to use his voice… Suddenly, Thomas was overwhelmed by a torrent of images.

_…… …… …… … …_

_ A teenaged boy sat under a tree, engrossed in a book, black hair falling in front of his face like a curtain. Celegorm slowly approached him, creeping through the foliage without making a single sound. When he was right behind the boy, he suddenly lifted his head from the bushes, hoping to surprise him. _

_“Are you still busy?”_

_His intended victim didn’t look up from his book, but a frown formed on his face._

_“Yes, Tyelko. I am still busy. Go away.”_

_“But… you said you were almost done!”_

_Now the boy turned, glaring at him._

_“I’m no closer to being done than I was five minutes ago, and I won’t get any closer if you keep bothering me! Can’t you just go do something instead of annoying me?”_

_(But… I wanted to do something_ with you _.)_

_“A-All right. I’m sorry…”_

_... . … . …_

_“She left, my lord.”_

_His valet cringed a bit under his stare._

_“Whereto?”_

_“We don’t know. She travels at her own whim and never shares her plans with us.”_

_“And she did not say when she expected to be back?”_

_The younger elf hesitated._

_“I… I am not sure she intended to come back this time, my lord.”_

_(But I needed to talk to her! I needed to tell her I am sorry… I… I needed her to know!)_

_He shrugged._

_“All right, then I need not bother waiting for her. What else happened in my absence?”_

_… . … . …_

_“You have no honour.”_

_He smirked at Finrod._

_“And you have too much of it, cousin. If you don’t watch out, that might just kill you.”_

_He expected to see the king’s eyes flash with powerless indignation… but there was no ire in Finrod’s gaze this time. Only pity._

_… . … . …_

_The room was empty._

_(We are the Dispossessed… but she was not a possession. She was light and life and love, and I could not lock her away nor set her in precious metal.)_

_… . … . …_

_After the anger and embarrassment had dissipated, he found himself tiredly eyeing the now empty spot next to his seat. He knew why Huan had chosen Luthien… he couldn’t even blame him. He was cruel and honourless while she was kind and noble; it was hardly a choice at all, really._

_One time the great hound had honoured their friendship, returning to him when he could have stayed with her… but Celegorm knew with painful certainty that he wouldn’t receive that gift a second time._

_He was all alone now._

_… . … . …_

_There was darkness, even when the sun was high in the sky. It was always dark. The shadow of the Oath was tall and black… He no longer remembered what it was like to live in the light._

_(The darkness is like hunger.)_

_He looked over his troops with a sense of grim satisfaction. They would attack at the break of dawn. Their numbers were great and their weapons superior; Doriath would either bend or break under their strength. The Sindar would pay for their insolence…_

_(Look at us, hollow-eyed and famished... We are servants to starvation, parched enough for poison and blood to quench our thirst, starved enough to devour our own. All honour is lost to us.)_

_… . … . …_

_The floor was cold as ice, but the chill spread through his body like fire. It didn’t hurt, not as he had thought it would. He had thought it would burn…_

_(Our souls are blackened by the shadow, twisted by the dark… cursed to dwell in the cold.)_

_Dior Eluchil’s unseeing eyes stared at him, still as intense as they had been in life. Even in death, Luthien’s son was beautiful... Celegorm looked into those dead orbs as darkness fell over the hall, and remembered the light of the Silmarils._

_(It would have left us blistered and scorched… for we are shadow, and shadow cannot be in the light. We would have burned in it like the creatures of Morgoth burn in the sun.)_

_The cold froze his limbs, made his blood run thick and slow... and as death was upon him, he smirked._

 …… …… …… …...

When he returned to his senses, Thomas noted he had drawn Celegorm even closer, softly cradling him. The elf was still shivering.

“D-don’t… l-leave…”

Thomas soothingly ran his fingers through the spirit’s tresses.

“I won’t leave. Sssh… I won’t leave.”

The visions had been warped and fragmented, and he hadn’t nearly understood all of what he had seen… but the heart-wrenching sense of loneliness and rejection in them had hit him hard. Thomas didn’t think anymore about how ridiculous he must look, or how weird it all was… he just wanted to make the being in his arms feel safe again.

For a quite some time he just held the spirit, calmly running his fingers through his hair or rubbing circles on his back… and eventually Celegorm’s trembling ceased. He looked weary and spent, too exhausted even to move...

“T-Tired…”

His voice was a mere whisper.

“Then you should go to sleep.”

“D-don’t leave…”

“Ssssh…”

Thomas continued stroking Celegorm’s hair, and noted to his satisfaction that the elf was half-asleep already, dazedly watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. He smiled.

“Sleep, Tyelko.”

And as if that had been the last command needed, the spirit surrendered to sleep at last, going limp in Thomas' arms. One moment Thomas still felt him lie against him… and the next, he was gone.

_I hope that wherever he is now, he won’t be alone anymore._

* * *

 

Thomas was sitting in the cage, calmly rocking from side to side with his arms around something invisible. His expression was both confused and oddly solemn, reminding Maglor of the way he had seen people look when struck by foresight...

Thomas didn’t take notice of him, so he remained silent as to not disturb what the boy was doing. Instead, Maglor quietly observed him, eyes travelling over the empty coffee mug, discarded sketchpad, and strewn about hairbrushes in the cell. When he took a better look at the sketchpad, his heart clenched. All of Thomas’ drawings were cruel in their accuracy, unremitting and without euphemism… but this one was like a knife in his chest. He hardly recognized the crumpled being depicted as his brother…

Maglor didn’t even see a glimpse of his brother this time, but he still felt it when Celegorm’s fëa left. It was like something tightly wound up suddenly relaxing, a nervous tension leaving the air... it should have been relieving, but for some reason it wasn’t. Thomas still had that strangely grave look in his eyes when he came out of the cell. It made him look old, far older than his 18 years... Maglor felt a shiver run down his back at the sight of it. It was as if in a couple hours Thomas had aged a thousand years… and the resemblance to his father was simply frightening.

“Thomas, are you all right?”

“Yes… yes, I am. I guess.”

He sounded worryingly absent…

“Are you sure?”

“Mhmm.”

Only when they reached the reception desk, Thomas broke from his odd state.

“Caroline!”

The sense of ancientness fell off him along with his alarming resemblance to Fëanor… and Maglor started to feel concerned for a whole other reason. Watching Thomas’ somewhat awkward interactions with the young shelter worker was like looking at a piece of fireworks ready to explode; he could almost see the sparks fly. What did the boy think he was doing? Back in the car, he noticed Thomas was holding a piece of paper. He suspiciously eyed it.

“What is that?”

Thomas grinned at him.

“Her telephone number.”

“What do you need that for?”

Thomas sarcastically raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think?”

Maglor sighed.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

The boy shrugged, his grin not fading the least.

“I think it’s an excellent idea.” He turned to Maglor. “You know, I think I’m going to make her something.”

“ _Make_ her something?”

“A drawing, I mean, or a painting. It’s not like I can make much else. What do you think she would like?”

If he hadn’t needed to keep his eyes on the road, he would have banged his head on the steering wheel.

_Why, Valar?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! And yes, I have been cruel to poor Celegorm. I think the "animal" regression he went through was his mind's way to cope with the pain and confusion… 
> 
> Thomas playing hairdresser here is less straightforward than it may seem. The way a spirit looks is a reflection of what state their mind and fëa is in; Celegorm's messed up look reflected the state of his mind. Technically it wasn't the brushing that made his hair look better, but the steady, calm and caring attention given to him. Without knowing, Thomas created a safe space for Celegorm, where he could return from the regression and face his pain. (so yeah, I really thought this through!)
> 
> I tried my best to write Celegorm's memories and inner voice as distinctly different from Caranthir, and also reflective of his increasing insanity under the Oath. I have no idea if I succeeded… (so feedback would be awesome!)
> 
> Also, Thomas doesn't understand most of the memories, as he has no context whatsoever for most of them. I hope you all understand them though...
> 
> Oh yes, for those of you who don't know anything about dogs: a "break stick" is a special plastic stick used to wring open the jaws of a dog when he bites someone. People who own dogs with strong jaws (b.e. rotties, akitas, pitbulls) generally carry a break stick with them when they walk their pets, just to be safe. As for the grooming tools, a matting comb is a special comb with long metal pins, used to cut through mats and tangles in fur. A pinwire brush is exactly what it sounds like, it's usually used on long-haired dogs.
> 
> As for the bite Thomas received… rest assured that he will not turn into a zombie. (I'm just saying this because I can already see the question come up)
> 
> I wonder what you thought of this. Did I write Celegorm convincingly? (it's hard to write a character who hardly says anything…) What are your thoughts about Caroline? Do you have any questions about this chapter? Thoughts about what is still to come? Reviews are love! ^^


	5. Ghosts Of The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when they're "off duty", Thomas and Maglor aren't free from the ghosts of the past. However, while the Noldo is struggling with memories, his companion finds himself haunted in a far more literal sense...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make note of the fact that the amazing Fish In Fridge is translating this story into Chinese! If you're interested, you can find it on: http://tieba.baidu.com/p/2969594117

He hadn't told Maglor much about his encounter with Celegorm, if only because he had trouble making sense of it all for himself. The memory –because that was what he supposed it was, a memory- of Caranthir's death had startled him, but the sequence of strange, distorted images and frenzied thoughts the blonde spirit had shared with him had been a whole other level of disturbing. Thomas sullenly walked through the clinic's corridors, lost in thought. Ever since the encounter with Celegorm, he felt off.

He couldn't tell Maglor about it. How rejected and abandoned his brother had felt, how that stupid Oath had eaten away at his sanity, how much pain his soul had been in in the end… he couldn't tell him. It felt wrong to share something like that; it was too personal, too intimate. And yet, Thomas wished he could speak about it. Maybe this was how real therapists felt after seeing a difficult patient, he mused. They couldn't talk about what they heard either, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that, but surely they must feel troubled by it as well, some times?

_There's just no way to help trouble out of the world, is there? You can only pass the burden to someone else._

The thought alone was tiring. Thomas hoped not all Maglor's brothers would be as broken as Celegorm; partly because he didn't wish such a condition on anyone, but mostly because he didn't think he could take another encounter with so damaged a mind. He didn't know how the memory-sharing worked, or even why it happened, but there was no denying that it was taxing… While lost in thought, he had wandered out of the clinic, into the therapy garden.

The therapy garden offered a wide variety of plants and trees, making sure there was always something in bloom no matter the season. There were winding (but wheelchair-friendly) paths, big lawns for group therapy and picnics, and small corners that felt secluded but could be easily overseen from the higher floors of the clinic. Actually it wasn't half bad for a hospital garden. Thomas had never been a big fan of it though. For some reason, the doctors and therapists of the revalidation centre thought gardens were beneficial to the recovery of their patients, so they greatly "encouraged" people to spend time in them. This had included him, and… well, he had never taken kindly to coercion. As soon as he had realized they wanted him to enjoy the garden, he had in a fit of defiance decided to never go there if he could avoid it. Now he had accidentally walked into it however, Thomas found himself grudgingly appreciating his surroundings. Spring had begun, and the plants that had been brown and seemingly dead all winter were now decked in a wealth of fresh green. A large tulip tree in full bloom hung over a forgotten park bench, soft pink petals floating down when a breeze rustled the branches. He didn't want to admit it… but it was beautiful.

Standing amidst the greenery, Thomas felt a bit of the weight that had pressed on him lift, much like how Maglor's strange house had calmed his anger. The relief was almost physical… One of the benches close to the door was occupied by an empty-eyed woman in pyjamas, and in the distance he could see patients gathering on the lawn for what was probably a yoga or aerobics class, but when he closed his eyes he could pretend he was all alone. He sat down under the tulip tree, and as he listened to the wind in the leaves a content sigh escaped him. Maybe those doctors were on to something after all…

When he opened his eyes again and watched the petals drop, his hands suddenly itched to draw. Not out of stress or anger, but because he wanted to create something. Something beautiful. It was an oddly reassuring feeling…

Thomas remembered his idea to make something for Caroline. Her phone number still sat in his pocket, but although he had read it so often already that he knew it by heart, he hadn't called her yet. There were multiple reasons for that, and they were all equally frustrating. Not only was his floor's patient telephone located in plain sight of the nurse's station, he also feared that making conversation through the phone was beyond his skill in English, as he relied heavily on facial expressions and body language to understand people. And what would he say to her anyway? "Hey, remember me? The language-impaired kid who got bitten by a ghost at the dog shelter? Want to come over for a cup of coffee? Just so you know, I live in a hospital, and everyone here thinks I'm a brain-damaged idiot." Yeah, that would go over well…

It was foolishness to think anything could come from it, and he should probably just forget about her… but Thomas found that he couldn't. It had been too long since he had had any hope of a real connection with someone who was both alive and not Maglor. And Caroline… From the moment she had caught his eye he had been drawn to her. She had been so vibrant, so full of life, so… so warm. He wistfully smiled at the memory. If being with the dead was like standing in the cold without a coat, being with her had been like warming himself by a fire…

Maybe… maybe if he made her something really impressive, she would take him, brain damage and all? Surely he could work something out to solve the telephone problem…

* * *

"What do you need my phone for?"

Maglor frowned at Thomas, who answered with a glare.

"I'm going to call Caroline."

Right. Of course. Maglor had hoped that after a week, Thomas would have forgotten about the young shelter worker, but of course the Valar didn't grant him such reprieve. The Noldo didn't plan to let this go any further though. Derisively he remarked,

"Call her to do what? Invite her here? That will make a good impression…"

He knew it was a low blow, and he regretted it almost the moment it left his mouth. Thomas' grey eyes gained an unsettling intensity, and while his voice remained calm, the elf could feel the rage simmering in it.

"Oh, so now I should be ashamed of where and how I live? Wasn't it you who said there was nothing humiliating about my situation?"

_Oh-oh._

"Thomas, you know what I mean. I only want to spare you the disappointment."

"Wrong." Maglor involuntarily shuddered when he met the young man's hard gaze. "You don't want to spare me anything. You are scared. Scared that I'll get distracted and mess up this divine mission thing, or betray your little pointy-eared secret to someone if given the chance. As long as you are the only person I can speak to, the only person who takes me seriously… you can control me." His lips curled in a mocking smile. "Or so you think. Have you ever considered things from my side?"

Maglor opened his mouth to interject, but Thomas didn't even let him start.

"What is there for me in life, beyond annoying the nurses and playing therapist to ghosts? I mean, honestly. You don't have an endless amount of brothers; the day will come that we've given all of them a proper send-off. And then what's next? I'm quite certain that you won't stick around just to keep me company. I'll be all alone again, here in Retardville! And what prospects will I have? I'm a brain-damaged adolescent who never even made it out of high school, I basically live in a loony bin, I have no friends, no family, no mentionable skills, and the average illegal immigrant speaks better English. That sums it up quite nicely, don't you think?" He grinned mirthlessly. "I might as well throw myself on your father's pretty blade when we're done with this."

There was power in the young man's words, power that Maglor hadn't been prepared to face in the least. He had been caught without warning, and now he could almost feel the words ensnare him… All he could do was brace himself. Meanwhile, Thomas was still talking, unaware of –or ignoring- the turmoil he caused in the elf. He made a seemingly appeasing gesture.

"Now look at it like this. If there is even the smallest chance that Caroline would accept me, ghost hunting and broken English included, don't you think I should grab it? The disappointment of rejection can never be worse than the life that's waiting for me if I don't even try. And it's in your advantage too to have me motivated and hopeful; I'll be more efficient, and probably also make for better company –a not insignificant detail I'd reckon, given that we're stuck with each other until this is over with."

Thomas' eyes were stone cold when he calmly ended his discourse.

"So, will you let me use your phone, or do I need to procure one some other way?"

Knowing when to admit defeat, Maglor reached into his coat pocket and handed Thomas his cell phone. The boy's look chilled him to the bone... He knew that in time he would think back on this and find all kinds of holes in the reasoning… but right now, he couldn't bring himself to think on it. His whole mind was in a state of shock, trying to shake of the effects of that unexpected verbal pounding.

_Ai Valar… Such power in the hands of a barely overage mortal… Do they even know what they've done?_

* * *

Thomas was honestly surprised that he had managed to talk Maglor out of his phone. He hadn't counted on it much; in fact he had already thought of a backup plan that would require him to nick a fellow patient's cell phone. Yet when the elf had stood in front of him, all his frustrations and arguments had suddenly fallen together in his head like random lines forming a pattern, and he had known what to say. It was like drawing, but with words, with his voice instead of a pencil. He sketched his speech, picking words like he usually picked colours, using intonation like shading and volume like the thickness of a line… It was a very peculiar experience, but exciting all the same. Thomas remembered as a kid how he had discovered pencils after having only thick crayons to draw with; it was a bit like that. This was a new material, and he would need lots of practice before it would be as comfortable to him as pen and paper… but the possibilities were near endless. He shook his head to himself.

_Damn… If only I had known this back in high school; I would have ruled the debate club._

Thomas looked at the phone in his hands, and then at Maglor, whose face was drained of colour. Not for the first time, he wondered how he had managed to shock a millennia old being. Was it him, or was Maglor just an easily unnerved specimen? The elf really looked as if he could use a seat and a stiff drink… Maybe he should apologize? No, first make the call. Thomas pushed away an unpleasant sense of guilt at being the cause of the Noldo's distress, and dialled Caroline's number. It wasn't long before she picked up.

"Caroline Dubois speaking, who is this?"

"Eh… Caroline, it is me, Thomas."

He winced at the halting manner the words came out, and for a moment he feared that Maglor had been right and that she wanted nothing to do with him, or worse, that she didn't even remember who he was. But then she answered, and he could clearly hear the eagerness in her voice.

"Hi! Good to hear from you! I had almost given up hope on you calling me…"

"I… do not have phone, before."

"Ah, okay. So, is this your number now?"

"Is Maka's phone."

"You mean your grumpy translator?"

Thomas couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yes, him."

He heard her giggle nervously.

"So… you called me."

"Yes. I… eh…" Thomas took a deep breath, and blurted out the phrase he had been practicing in his head for the better part of the day. "Would you like to come over for coffee some time?"

It was silent for a moment.

_Yeah, here it comes. The refusal. Any time now…_

"I would love to, but I… I actually wanted to ask you to come over to me, this Friday evening. It's my aunt's birthday, and there's this big garden party at my dad's house, and there will be cake and booze and music… It's always great fun." She started stuttering. "I… I understand if you don't want to, I mean, it's weird, you don't know me at all, and I'm inviting you to meet my family, you must think I'm totally crazy, I…"

She was rambling, and her accent had gotten worse, and Thomas thought it was the most adorable thing he had ever heard. He could almost see the blush that must have risen to her cheeks by now…

"I would love to come."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Great! Feel free to bring your translator, there'll be more than enough food. I'll give you the address, do you have something to write?"

When Thomas handed the phone back to Maglor a little later, he felt like doing a victory dance.

"We have a date!"

The elf disbelievingly looked at him.

"We?"

* * *

Although there were illustrious examples of it among the elves, speaking with words of power wasn't a purely Eldarin talent. Maglor had met mortal men and women who could weave such power in their speech that it would move nations, for good or evil. It had never ceased to unsettle him, mostly because he knew first hand what the consequences of such mighty words could be. Compared to that, Thomas' little display of force was almost laughable… But Maglor didn't laugh. It had perhaps been unpolished and a bit haphazard, but it had been strong, strong enough to hit him hard and personal.

For a moment he had been back in Alqualondë, on the red-stained deck of one of the swan-ships, soaked in seawater that felt and smelled like blood. In his mind he had been covered with it, thick red liquid trickling from his clothes and hair as it had done from his sword. Everything had been red and dripping, glistening with freshly spilled blood… and he had just stood there, unable to move away, paralyzed by the horror of what they had done. What he had done. It was all he remembered of their crossing. He had some vague memories of Maedhros holding him close, holding his hair as he retched in a chamber pot, but everything else was gone. As far as his mind was concerned, there had been nothing but blood.

The memory had lasted but a moment, but it had been enough. Maglor was trembling, and his entire being wanted nothing more than to run out of the room and never come back. If this was only an uncoordinated attempt at words of power, he didn't want to know what Thomas might be able to do with enough practice and training… He still hadn't completely recovered when the boy finished his telephone conversation. Apparently it had been successful, for he wore a big triumphant grin on his face.

"We have a date!" Wait… We? Was he supposed to come along? Play chaperone?

"Yeah, you're invited too. It's a party."

_Great. Just, great._

* * *

Ever since the phone-incident, things had been a little chilly between him and Maglor. Thomas could only conclude that he must have really insulted the elf, and that an apology was in order. The problem was, he didn't know what he should be apologizing for. Yeah, he had been harsh and blunt, but he usually was, and the elf had never taken this bad to it before. Could he just say, "I'm sorry for insulting you" when he didn't even know what the insult had been?

Maglor was giving him the quasi-silent-treatment, meaning that he said nothing unless he had no other choice. It was extremely frustrating. As they drove to Caroline's party, Thomas looked forward to being around people who actually talked; even not understanding a thing would be better than Maglor's increasingly awkward silence. He didn't know what to make of the elf's behaviour and it was getting on his nerves.

_Why can't he just tell me what's up, yell at me, maybe punch me, and then be done with it? Elves are so confusing. Am I supposed to just guess at what's bothering him?_

Ah, blast it. Maybe he was just hopelessly inept at dealing with living people.

When they arrived at the address, Thomas was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of the house. Caroline's father lived in a large limestone country house, with an impressive driveway and a well kept front yard. It wasn't an estate, but it was still grander than he had expected… As they walked to the front door, Thomas wished he had even a fraction of Maglor's poise. They were similarly dressed in black trousers and monochromatic shirts –red for him, black for the elf- but the difference couldn't be greater. The Noldo looked effortlessly dashing, and his face didn't betray the least bit of tension. He, on the other hand, probably looked like a bumbling idiot.

_But hey, what's new, right?_

Immediately when he rung the bell, aggressive barking sounded from behind the door, until a familiar voice commanded,

"Cain, David, STAY!"

Immediately the barking stopped, and the front door opened to show a smiling Caroline, accompanied by two big black Dobermans. Thomas' breath stuck in his throat, and not only because the growling dogs were rather menacing. Caroline was beautiful. Her auburn tresses fell freely over her shoulders, and a forest-green wrap dress made her elegant curves stand out. It was a far call from the dirty work clothes she had worn in the shelter, and Thomas feared his mouth was hanging open. Her décolleté alone made the blood fall from his brain to less rational parts of his anatomy… Her smile widened when she recognized them.

"You came!"

He smiled a little awkwardly.

"Said I would, no?"

She laughed a little nervously at that.

"True that… Now come on in! And don't be scared of the dogs, they're all bark and no bite, the sweethearts."

She shooed the large beasts back into the house to let him and Maglor enter, and then led them to the party. The party was in full swing already, and everywhere people were happily chatting, laughing, drinking, and dancing to the tunes of a live band. There was a buffet with food and drinks, and the whole garden had been decorated with ribbons and coloured fairy lights. The merriment drew a smile on Thomas' face… the same could not be said for Maglor, who looked if possible even stonier than before.

"Can I get you something? The buffet is open, but if you want a cocktail or something…?"

"Thank you, but I don't need anything." Maglor smiled. "And please, don't feel obliged to stay with me; I'm sure you and Thomas have more interesting things to do than keeping me company. I'll be fine on my own." H

is tone was light and amiable, but Thomas could tell it wasn't genuine. Caroline seemed to feel it as well, as she hesitated.

"Are you sure? I could introduce you to some people if you like?"

"That will not be necessary."

The dismissal in his voice was unmistakable, and the girl nodded a little awkwardly.

"All right then! Thomas, would you like a drink?"

"Sure."

"Okay, this way!"

He gladly let himself be pulled into the crowd, happy to be free of Maglor's slightly hostile muteness. Maybe a little alone-time would improve the elf's mood? 

* * *

Maglor had watched Thomas and Caroline disappear between the other people in search of food and drinks, and a little later he spotted them on the dance floor, laughing and swaying to the music. He observed with growing unease how Thomas' hand lay a little too low on Caroline's back for decency, how she subtly pressed herself a little closer to him than required, how their eyes remained locked throughout every move… The elf felt his cheeks heat up. The two youngsters obviously couldn't wait to jump each other's bones, and the only thing he could think about was how much Thomas resembled his father. It was… well, rather awkward.

Wanting to look at something less mortifying, his eyes turned to the musicians on the makeshift stage. They weren't without merit for such young mortals, and if their cheerful Celtic tunes hadn't reminded him so much of the past, he would probably have enjoyed their performance more. As it was however, the music and revelry only made his melancholia worse. Ever since Thomas' unexpected speech, he had been plagued by thoughts and memories of a past that he had believed himself done with, and he didn't manage to push them back where they belonged.

_I may be done with the past, but the past is obviously not done with me…_

He would probably have continued to wallow in his own misery for a little longer, if one of the musicians hadn't caught his eye. He could have mistaken her for an elf. She was tall and willowy, with long ebony hair and features as if carved from marble. Her instrument was a transverse flute, and she played it without the slightest effort or hesitation. Maglor couldn't believe his eyes. Right when he thought things couldn't get more awkward...

So this is what my uncle would look like as a woman. Valar know why I had to see this…

He continued to stare at the woman who bore such ridiculous resemblance to Fingolfin, until a heavily accented voice resounded next to him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with long strawberry-blonde hair and a gauzy white floor-length dress. She held a cigarette in one hand and a glass of liquor in the other, and gave him a lopsided smile. Maglor raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Amandine Dubois. This is my party. Do I know you?"

"Eh… I'm afraid not. My name is Maka Smith, your niece invited me."

"Ah, then you must be the grouchy translator she told me about. That explains it. You're not enjoying yourself much, are you?"

Maglor was a little taken aback by the woman's directness.

"Well…"

"No worries dear, I'm not insulted. My parties aren't everyone's piece of cake. Is it the music? You were giving my daughter-in-law quite the glare there…"

He shook his head.

"No, it's not your party, or the music, I'm simply not in the best of moods." He looked curiously at her. "The flutist is your daughter-in-law?"

"Ah yes. It's quite the story. See the singer of the band? That's my son Christophe. One day he came home with this gorgeous girl on his arm, and I still remember how he said, "Mother, this is Thelma, and I'm going to marry her." Amandine grinned. "And what do you say in the face of such determination, right?" She shook her head and chuckled. "All things considered I can't complain; she's a good girl. Bit impulsive maybe, but a good girl."

"She's very talented."

Amandine kicked out her cigarette stub.

"That she is."

The conversation fell silent, but Maglor found he didn't mind the presence of Amandine too much. The whole situation had gained a surreal hue, and as twilight fell over the garden, the elf wondered if perhaps this was all a strange dream from Irmo.

_Ah, if only…_

When he looked again at Thomas and Caroline, the woman followed his gaze.

"They're a nice pair, my niece and your brother."

"My brother?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, is he your cousin then? Or your nephew?"

More than a bit unsettled, Maglor shook his head.

"We… we are not related."

Amandine appeared to be honestly surprised.

"Really? I could have sworn you two had some sort of family bond. He looks quite a bit like you."

"Maybe it's the light. People all look alike at dusk."

"Yes, maybe…"

She didn't seem convinced, and Maglor was starting to feel really uncomfortable.

"Now you mention it, you do look a bit like Thelma too. Wouldn't it be funny if you two were distant relatives?"

Maglor clenched his teeth.

_The height of hilarity, really._

* * *

Thomas felt a bit light-headed, and it wasn't –just– because of the excellent cocktails Caroline had mixed for them. The atmosphere of the party was intoxicating; it felt a bit as if he had stepped into a different world from the moment he had entered the garden. Conversation was light and easy despite the language barrier, and time passed almost unnoticed as they talked and danced. Thomas would have been perfectly content to do nothing but that for the rest of the night… But then the musicians took a break, and Caroline insisted he met her cousins.

Christophe Dubois was a jovial guy in his late twenties, with sandy blonde hair and a small beard. He asked if they had liked the music, complimented their avid dancing, and then wandered off to the drinks table. Despite the short interaction, he made a sympathetic impression. His wife Thelma on the other hand… now that was another story. If Thomas would have to make a collection of unpleasant glares and stares he had received over the years, the one Thelma Dubois-Saroyan was giving him now would get a place of honour, right next to Maglor's "I Greatly Disapprove Of This" expression and the frighteningly black eyes of Namo. He wondered what he could have done to deserve such contempt… he hadn't even opened his mouth!

_Apparently my presence alone makes people give me the stink eye. Joy._

Thelma was a tall, slender woman with raven hair, pale skin, and sharp yet attractive features. Thomas couldn't help but think she looked a bit like Maglor. With only the scant illumination of the party lights it was difficult to say though, so he discarded the thought. It was probably just the "generic pretty" thing that reminded him of the elf.

"So you are the medium? Caroline has told me all about you."

Her voice was pleasant enough, but her eyes held a warning that Thomas didn't like one bit.

"I hope good things?"

She smiled coldly.

"Quite interesting things, actually. I can't say I know a lot about ghosts and their habits; I never knew they had affinity for dog shelters…"

"Ghosts come all places."

Thomas inwardly cursed at his lacking language skills. In Quenya he would bore her into the ground in no time, but with his limited knowledge of English there wasn't much he could do to retort against the woman's covered barbs. With a grin, Thelma turned to Caroline.

"Caro, would you mind if I borrow your friend for a dance? I haven't been on the floor all night, and I doubt there'll be much dancing once Chris is back with the drinks. You know how I get once I have a glass in my hand."

"Sure, go ahead!"

Caroline was wholly unaware of her cousin's subtle show of antipathy. Thomas didn't really want to draw attention to it either, so he followed the tall woman to the dance floor, rueing the existence of stereo installations…

* * *

 

Maglor sat on the grass next to Amandine, smoking a blunt the woman had kept somewhere in the folds of her gauzy dress. It didn't affect him as much as it would a mortal, but it put a bit of a hazy layer over his mind and memories, something he could definitely appreciate. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"So your son really married two months after meeting his wife?"

"Uh-huh. He met her on a Halloween party. He had only just arrived, when a fight broke out in the front yard. Two girls rolling in the mud, screaming, scratching, hair-pulling, the whole show. They kept fighting until someone put the hose on them…" Amandine giggled. "One of them was a real mess; dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, black eye, scratches all over… so my boy volunteered to drive her to the hospital."

"And that was Thelma?"

She grinned and nodded.

"That was Thelma." She took the blunt back from Maglor and inhaled deeply. "Two months later, they stood in my kitchen with a wedding announcement."

"That's… fast."

"Mhmm. As I said, she's an impulsive one." Amandine eyed the dancers. "Speaking of her… she's dancing with your friend now."

Maglor looked, and immediately wished he hadn't done so. In the middle of the floor stood Thomas and Thelma, engaged in something between an elaborate wrestling match and a staring contest. Closing his eyes, he suppressed a groan. 

_Well, at least no swords are involved. Let's be grateful for the little things._

* * *

"You know, Caroline doesn't easily bring someone here. We never even got to meet her last boyfriend."

Thelma's tone was conversational, but the undertone was unmistakable. Thomas defiantly raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"She likes you. A lot." The woman's lips remained stuck in a smile, but her look darkened. "I don't know what you did or told her, but let me tell you this. I don't believe in paranormal mumbo jumbo. I don't believe you can talk to ghosts or spirits or whatever you call it. You may have wooed my cousin with your act, but I don't fall for it."

The music quickened, and he felt her hot breath in his neck when she harshly pulled him closer and whispered,

"I don't trust you, Thomas Ashworth. Caro and I may not be truly related, but she is like a sister to me. If you dare to hurt her, you better pray that death finds you before I do."

Thomas swallowed.

_Well, that escalated quickly._

Thankfully, the song ended then and Thelma let go of him. Unfortunately, the woman hadn't played all her cards yet. Christophe had just gotten them all a beer when she casually remarked,

"Chris, does your mother still have that old Ouija board?"

The man laughed.

"Why, want to play?"

Thelma shrugged and smirked at Thomas.

"We do have a real medium in our midst now…"

It wasn't hard to guess her motives; she obviously wanted to expose him as an imposter. Telling her that –as far as he knew- spirits didn't appear on command would only convince her of his falsehood even more…

"Sounds fun!"

And apparently Caroline thought the Ouija board was a good idea too. Great. 

Christophe grinned at him.

"So, what do you think? Feel like bringing us in contact with the nether world?"

_The gods hate me. It must be. They really, really hate me._

Thomas wanted to bash his head against a wall. Faced with Caroline's expectant look however, he just nodded.

"I… I can try."

… … …

A little later, they had settled down on the floor of Mr Dubois' small library, the wooden board between them. Thelma had lit a bunch of white candles, made a show of saying a prayer and calling for spirits, and now they were moving the planchette over the board in slow circles, waiting for something to happen. And surprise, surprise… nothing happened. Much to Thomas' ire, Thelma looked extremely satisfied. Her voice was obviously mocking when she called out,

"So, there is no one, no one at all who wants to talk to us?"

When again nothing notable happened, Christophe shrugged and took his finger from the planchette. He grabbed his drink and got up.

"The ghosts have better things to do, it seems." He sent Thomas an apologizing grin. "Maybe there's a party on the nether side too. I'm going back outside, see you guys later. Don't summon any demons, kay?"

When the door closed behind him, Thelma triumphantly looked at Thomas. She sarcastically remarked,

"And you really earn yourself a living with this?"

He wanted to say something in defense, but Caroline was faster. She frowned at her cousin.

"Oh come on Thel, don't be like that! An Ouija board is just a game, that's not what being a medium is about! You shouldn't make fun of something you don't understand."

"Caro, you know I don't believe in…"

Before she could start a preach on how spirits didn't exist, Caroline interrupted her, breathlessly. She was staring wide-eyed at the game.

"Thel… T-The board. Look."

 

When Thelma followed her gaze, her mouth fell open. The planchette, abandoned in the middle of board, was moving. By itself.

"Oh my god… I… I have to get…"

She moved to get up, but when she did so, the planchette stopped. Only when she sat down again, it started moving over the alphabet once more, occasionally stopping on a letter. Caroline started spelling out what letters it came upon.

"A… I… Y… A…"

Thomas couldn't move. All the annoyance and embarrassment he had felt before had been replaced with a sense of dread.

"F… E… A… N…"

He closed his eyes. Why here? Why now?

"A… R… O…"

The room had grown icy cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked from it. They were all struck silent, eyeing the now motionless planchette.

"Hello, Fëanáro."

It sounded female, cold and resonant like breaking glass… When Thomas looked up, he couldn't help but gasp. Across him sat the most frightening spirit he had ever seen. An elven woman in a white fur cloak had taken up Christophe's place. Her skin was an unnatural, sickly shade of white, and her eyes had a milky sheen over them, like the eyes of a corpse. Dull blonde tresses framed a gaunt face, and thin, blueish lips curled in a mockery of a smile when Thomas' eyes widened. He felt bile rise in his throat. Something about her was so revolting it made his stomach turn.

"How ironic, that it is you they sent… Of all people…"

The sound of her voice was like nails over chalkboard, and Thomas trembled.

"Who… who are you?"

A hissing laugh escaped her.

"You don't recognize me? Tssss…"

"What do you want from me?"

She didn't answer his question. With a bony, frozen hand she caressed Thelma's arm, making the motionless girl shiver in fear and cold.

"Can I not visit my last descendant? I warned her for you, you know…"

That at least explained Thelma's uncalled-for dislike of him… Thomas' mind was spinning. He remembered what Maglor had said about spirits turning evil, and this one definitely didn't look benevolent. With a croaked voice he whispered,

"Don't harm them."

"Harm them? No… That is what you do. I would never have harmed anyone if not for you." There was no expression in those glazed, dead eyes, but Thomas felt as if she stared right into his soul. "Did you know… that when you get cold enough… it feels as if you're burning?"

The air in the room was so icy he almost couldn't breathe.

"It can get very cold, Fëanáro… So cold that every gasp and pant sets your lungs aflame… that every move feels like burning needles being stuck in your body… so terribly cold that the tears freeze on your face when you cry in agony…" Her grimace-like smile widened when she advanced on him, bending over the board until her bloodless face was close to his. "Are you scared yet, fiery one?"

Thomas had never been so scared in his entire life. He choked out,

"Please don't do this…"

The spirit pulled back a little.

"You think I want to kill you?" He hesitated.

"You… you don't?"

"My kinslaying days are long behind me, Fëanáro…"

Despite her expressionless, frozen eyes, Thomas felt that she spoke the truth; she did not plan to kill him. He rubbed his numb hands over each other in an attempt to make them feel warm again, but to no avail. The cold had seeped into his bones, it seemed…

"Then why are you here?"

Something in the face of the corpse-like elf softened, making her seem less repulsive somehow. There was unmistakable longing in her voice.

"He begged me to stay with him... So stay I did. I stayed with him until he died, and ever since I have watched over my descendants."

Compared to Celegorm and Caranthir, this frozen elf was extremely coherent and aware of her surroundings… Thomas didn't understand it. He couldn't match what she said with the things he already knew about spirits, namely that they had less and less grip on the living world as more time passed. How did she know whom her descendants were, when Caranthir hadn't even noticed his own brother standing in the same room?

"How… how a-are you not…?"

He didn't finish, but the ghost guessed his question anyway, sending shivers down his spine when she laughed hissingly.

"Ah, wouldn't you like to know?" Her face contorted in a grotesque grin. "Such disdain you showed for the teachings of the Vanyar… You discarded our knowledge of the unseen in favour of that what you could touch and hold, the works of your hands… Hah!" The spirit chuckled derisively. "And so much joy those have brought you, no?" She shook her head. "You always needed to grab and own things, even that which was intangible and immaterial… Our lessons would have been lost on you."

"W-What do you want from me?"

For a moment, Thomas thought he saw a spark of life in her vacant eyes.

"I should not want a thing from you… But I do."

He felt himself go numb in her proximity, as if all the warmth was being drained from him… She bent closer to him, and her face was but centimetres from his when she continued,

"However, I am not like you, I don't take without giving back… So let this be my gift to you, fiery one."

Thomas couldn't back away when she pressed her frozen lips on his. A biting chill spread to his body like wildfire, and as everything around him slid out of focus, he clearly heard her voice in his mind.

_You fan the flames of your own pyre… But frozen kindling doesn't burn, Fëanáro. One day you will thank me._

A moment later his mind gave in to the cold, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! Could that be a cliffhanger? I think it's the first time I do this in this story… xD This chapter took me SO long… (I'm sorry for the wait…)
> 
> There are a number of important things in this chapter that require some explanation, and I apologize beforehand for the long list. To begin with, there is...
> 
> \- Thomas' sudden speech talent.
> 
> As explained in the story, "speaking with words of power" isn't an exclusively elven thing, so even though there are famous elven examples (*cough*Fëanor*cough*) it occurs among humans too. Technically it entails convincing people not just with arguments, but with some form of magic woven in them. (You could see Saruman's voice as an example of this, even though he was a Maia it sort of comes down to the same.) Thomas may have possessed this talent in some latent form before his accident, but the sudden emergence of it is definitely related to his Quenya speech.
> 
> \- Maglor's bad response to Thomas' sudden speech talent.
> 
> Thomas' skill with words is definitely not on the same level as the great speakers of both elves and men… but he managed to hit Maglor really hard because the elf didn't expect such a sudden, deeply personal assault.
> 
> In this story, I let Maglor have a very bad experience after the First Kinslaying; he basically had a psychotic breakdown and doesn't remember much of what came after defeating the Teleri and stealing the boats until they land in Losgar. I do this not because I like to see him suffer (okay, maybe a bit) but because it serves as an explanation why he didn't stand with Maedhros when the boats were burned. I've always thought that him not supporting his brother in this didn't completely fit with his character further in the story, so I made that up. None of them were in their right mind at the time, but Maglor certainly wasn't, and he really, really wanted those boats gone. 
> 
> It's one of the many things from his past that our dear minstrel hasn't come to terms with, and he is giving Thomas the silent treatment because he made him remember, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.
> 
> \- Thelma Dubois-Saroyan
> 
> Amandine is right: her daughter-in-law is indeed a distant relative of Maglor. A descendant of Arwen and Aragorn, to be precise. Genes are funny things, they can resurface even after being diluted who-knows-how-many times… with that in mind, I turned her into a human, female Fingolfin. Because, why not? xD
> 
> There is an important difference between the resemblance of Thelma to Fingolfin and that of Thomas to Fëanor. Thelma physically looks like her ancestor, but not in mind or fëa. Thomas resembles Fëanor in mind and fëa, and that resemblance makes them look alike despite having different physical features. (Just thought to clarify this.)
> 
> Oh, and if anyone noticed; Amandine never married, and that's why Christophe has her maiden name.
> 
> \- The creepy spirit
> 
> Picture the scary dead elves in the Dead Marshes, but female, and with ice instead of water. That's the look I'm going for.
> 
> In case you didn't guess, the spirit is that of Elenwë of the Vanyar, wife of Turgon, who died on the Helcaraxë. The Vanyar are the most spiritual of the elven races, and in my head canon they know almost as much about magic, foresight, and the properties of the fëa as the Noldor know about material crafts. I can imagine that Fëanor would have had little patience to learn about such things, as they weren't of practical use to him and he wasn't exactly a fan of the Vanyar. (Because Indis… -_-) Elenwë's Vanyarin education is what saved her spirit from complete insanity though (I say complete, because not even the Vanyar come undamaged out of something like this...)
> 
> What a list, right? This chapter was not easy to write… Are you looking forward to more? Did I go overboard with anything? Are my characters still in character? (especially that, it's my greatest fear to write characters that suddenly don't feel like themselves anymore…) Any idea what Elenwë is doing to Thomas? I love comments and feedback!


	6. Cold War Casualties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is the aftermath of a party, and awkwardness. Lots of awkwardness.

_(She had lost all sense of direction, all sense of time. Her eyes were on the ground, for she was afraid that if she were to look up, she would fall into the starry blackness above and be devoured by it.)_

_They called it the Grinding Ice for a reason; you could actually hear it, creaking and groaning under your feet like rusty clockwork. It got to you after a while. At first she hadn’t even been aware of the sound; the anger had burned too brightly in her heart to focus on anything other than the end of their doomed journey. It had come later, when the darkness, the monotonous landscape, and the biting, unrelenting cold had taken the sharp edge off her determination. Once you started listening, it was like thousands of voices plaintively whining, trapped in a prison of ice and water; nails and claws, desperately scratching frozen walls for freedom. It was always there, and slowly, it wormed its way into her mind, chafing away at her sanity._

_(In the coldest nights, it sounded deceptively much like the crackle of burning wood. It was a device of subtle cruelty, haunting her dreams with bitterness and longing alike. Their meagre cooking fires ran on animal remains and fat; they didn’t crackle so much as they hissed and stunk. There was only the memory of real flames… and bit-by-bit, even that was starting to fade.)_

_… . … . …_

_“Mísilindë, get up! Please, get up!”_

_A woman lay down on the ice, knees against her chest like a small child. A younger woman was desperately trying to pull her up, her voice shrill in the wind. It was no use. No amount of pleading could bring someone back once they were like this; the woman would be dead in a couple hours._

_She had seen it before; weakened by the cold and the lack of food, many couldn’t shoulder the grief of loved ones dying. They slowly dissociated from reality, wasting away until death set in. People called it the Cold Sleep, for the look in their eyes was not unlike the gaze of one dreaming. Empty-eyed and unresponsive they walked among them, until the host stopped to set up camp. Then they sat down, curled into themselves, and never got up again. Once the Cold Sleep grabbed someone, there was no saving them. If they had had light, and warmth, then perhaps... But in this darkness, it was hopeless._

_“Please…”_

_The woman’s voice slowly died away, until only sobbing could be heard. Elenwë turned her head from it. One day, all of them would have mourned a death such as this. Now, she did not even have a word of comfort to spare._

_The cold made them callous. How much more would it take to make them cruel?_

_(The waters of the sea don’t mourn the drowned, the soil doesn’t cry for the buried. The air does not mind who breathes it, nor does the fire care whom it burns.)_

_… . … . …_

_She only kept walking for fear that if she stopped but a moment too long, her feet would freeze stuck to the ground. The wind howled in chorus with the grinding and creaking of the ice, blowing in such fury that every step felt like trying to break through a wall. Every fibre of her body screamed in protest to the torment, but she couldn’t stop. In a blizzard like this, stopping meant a sure death. As long as they kept moving, kept sight of the lanterns, there was a chance of survival._

_“Ammë… I’m s-so cold…”_

_Itarillë’s tiny mental voice was so hesitant, so weak… hearing it, she felt as if the icy wind also blew through her heart._

_“Stay awake, little one. It’s almost over.”_

_It had to be. They had been walking through the storm for what seemed like days. Itarillë had walked with them at first, but the winds had soon grown too strong for her to withstand, and now she and Turukano took turns carrying the little one on their backs. Elenwë kept a mental link open at all times, to make sure her daughter was still conscious. Falling asleep was almost as deadly as stopping to walk, especially for the young ones._

_“Almost over?”_

_The hope in her daughter’s voice was heart-wrenching._

_“Yes, dear heart. It’s almost over.”_

_… . … . …_

_“Elenwë, daughter of my heart… Tell me.” Nolofinwë stared out over the camp. “How great are the losses?”_

_His tone told her he already knew the answer._

_“About 140 are not accounted for since the latest storm.” She hesitated. “It is less than last time.”_

_“Less than last time... I suppose I should rejoice at that.”_

_His voice was tinted with bitter resignation._

_“My lord…”_

_He shook his head._

_“No, don’t say anything.”_

_So she remained silent. Eventually Nolofinwë spoke again, so softly she almost didn’t hear him, words meant for the wind rather than her ears._

_“Our honour always weighs heavier than our conscience, doesn’t it?”_

_When honour and conscience did not lie in the same scale, it was pride you were weighing, not honour. But she would not say this. Not here. Not now. She had no right._

_(She had sworn in secret, in the shadow of her breath, to stand with him, and to go where he went.)_

_… . … . …_

_The child pitifully whined, lacking the strength and lung capacity for more. It had been born too early, and was too small and malnourished to survive. Very soon, it would follow its mother to the Halls of Mandos. Its soft cries were already becoming weaker, the cold turning its shivering lips purple. It would die in the dark, unnamed and unloved._

_Holding the tiny being in her blood-coated hands, Elenwë felt something inside her shatter. She had tried all she could to save the child’s mother, but the woman’s blood loss had killed her before any medicine could take effect. And now the child… No matter how much she tried to tell herself that it was better this way, better for it to die now rather than in a couple of days of cold and starvation, it didn’t help. It didn’t dam in the despair that threatened to flood her heart._

_She cradled the child to her chest, attempting to sing a lullaby to make the little one’s last moments less miserable… but her voice refused service, and when she felt the child had given its last breath, she fell to her knees and cried._

_(They heaped together when they slept, sharing what warmth they had as their bodies formed a cocoon for Itarillë.. They were the walls of the world for her. She wished they could always hold her like that, safe and hidden from the outside’s hardships…)_

_… . … . …_

_The panic was white-hot. She could see him, above her. Garbled screams through frozen prison walls, and cold, so cold… Her fingers scratched the ice until she couldn’t feel them anymore. The darkness was strangling her, icy hands around her throat. She couldn’t breathe…_

_A sword broke through the ice right next to her, shattering her prison. Hands gripped her and pulled her up, wrapping her in a desperate embrace._

_“Elenwë! Elenwë, look at me!”_

_She couldn’t feel him. He was right there, and yet he seemed so far away; she couldn’t feel his arms around her, nor his hands caressing her face. All was cold._

_“Stay with me, Elenwë! Please! You promised me!”_

_The anguish in his voice reached her where his touch would not. She had to stay…_

_“Please… Elenwë…”_

_Frozen chains wound around her heart, tugged on her, dragged her away into cold darkness. She struggled, refused to follow the pull even when pain shot through her chest and the open air offered her as little breath as the frigid water had..._

_“Please…”_

_A vague whisper was all she heard. Then, there was nothing._

_(Twice she defied his call. She too had made a promise.)_

… . … . …

 Thomas gasped for breath, his entire body shivering violently. He didn’t know where he was; thick, icy mist clouded his mind, and he couldn’t move or make a sound.

“Such warmth… I had almost forgotten…”

He saw her only when she spoke, her chilling voice pervading the fog in his head. She still looked gaunt, but her skin had lost its deathlike pallor, and her eyes were no longer glazed and unseeing. Instead they sat in her emaciated face like glittering blue gems, surrounded by a halo of golden-blonde tresses. Her appearance was one of faded glory rather than corpse-like repugnance now… but somehow it made her all the more terrifying.

“E-Elenw-wë…”

As he forced her name over his lips she smiled, with what he dared say was a hungry glint in her eyes. Her thin fingers caressed his cheek, sending a new wave of cold through his body.

“Goodbye, Fëanaro. And thank you…”

Thomas was still struggling to speak when a sudden icy breeze dissolved her form, leaving him alone with his panic. The inability to move or speak disappeared quickly after that, but the cold stayed where it was, firmly rooted in his being, paralyzing his thoughts.

“Thomas? Thomas, wake up!”

He heard voices as through a wall of ice and water, faraway and distorted. The cold made his mind sluggish, and he couldn’t make sense of the warped words he caught. There were familiar faces, but their identity was somehow out of his mind’s reach, and the names in his head refused to match up with the people before him...

“Please say something! Thomas!”

The sharply chiselled face bending over him struck a familiar chord, and at long last things came through. Or at least, he thought they did.

“Istanyë celdelelyá… Nolofinwë?”

Even in his befuddled state of mind, the look of bewildered incomprehension he received gave him a dreadful déjà-vu... 

 

* * *

 

Maglor had just started to relax a little bit, sitting with his back against a tree while Amandine had gone to get drinks for them, when the bomb fell. The bomb in this case being a deathly pale Thelma, and she didn’t fall so much as that she hesitatingly approached him, visibly shaken by something.

“A-Are you Mr M-Maka Smith?”

One look at her shock-stricken expression was enough to make any semblance of calm vanish immediately. He should have seen it coming…

_Apparently, they don’t even need swords to make trouble._

The Noldo barely managed to keep the trepidation out of his voice when he answered,

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

Straightaway, the girl looked as if she were about to cry.

“It’s Thomas, we were just fooling around with the Ouija board and I didn’t think it would do anything and then suddenly there was a real ghost and it…”

Maglor stopped her mid-sentence, not entirely believing what he just heard.

“Thomas tried to contact a ghost? With an Ouija board?”

Thelma nodded, fearfully.

“But it’s my fault, I pushed him to do it, I didn’t think it would do anything, I didn’t believe in ghosts, but then…”

Maglor had gotten up and grabbed the girl by the arms.

“Calm down. Tell me what happened, one thing at the time. So you called a ghost through the Ouija board. What happened then?”

Thelma swallowed.

“Nothing at first, but then suddenly the planchette started moving, by itself. The candles went out and it… it was… it became so cold... Thomas started talking in this strange language, and suddenly I…” Her eyes widened in fear at the memory and a shiver racked her body. “S-suddenly I felt it. I felt it on my skin, it touched me. It was so cold… I wanted to scream but I couldn’t, it was like… like my tongue was stuck, and I couldn’t get away, I couldn’t move…” She was really crying now. “And then the planchette started moving again, and it spelled out something again, and it spelled my name, and…”

“Do you remember what it said?”

The girl just sobbed, and he tightened his grip.

“Thelma, this is important. What did it say?”

She looked at him with frightened, teary eyes.

“I… I d-don’t know, something like nameary, and then my name, and Indwyo ninwya? I d-don’t know, it made no sense…”

She mispronounced terribly, but Maglor could easily tell what she meant, and it did nothing to soothe his now rampant worry.

_Namarië Thelma, indyo-ninya… Goodbye Thelma, descendant of mine._

“What happened to Thomas?”

“He just stared, and it was like he didn’t even see us, and he was so pale, he… he didn’t even recognize us! Please just come, Caroline said you could help and I don’t…”

Maglor didn’t need to hear more.

“Bring me to him. Now.”

 … … … … 

Whatever this ghost had done to Thomas, Maglor could tell it was bad. By the time he arrived in the library the boy had already recovered a bit from the near-catatonia Thelma had described; he at least recognized them and was able to speak English again. However, he still seemed only half-aware of what was happening, and after they said their goodbyes, Maglor had to take him by the hand to lead him away from the party. The elf didn’t know what worried him more about that; the lethargic state the boy was in to allow this, or the ice-cold touch of his skin. It could be just shock, but knowing ghosts had been involved, it could very well be something far worse…

As he drove them to his house, Maglor went over what might have happened. The use of Quenya, the unnatural cold, and the fact that Thelma was apparently its descendant were clear signs that the spirit had been an elf from Fingolfin’s branch of the family… but who?

_It probably doesn’t even matter who it was; even Fingon hated my father, and he was by far the most forgiving of the bunch. If any of them perceived Thomas as Fëanor…_

The elf glanced at the motionless boy in the passenger seat next to him, and unconsciously sped up the car, clenching his hands around the steering wheel. If even a fraction of what he knew about malicious spirits held true, Thomas needed help as soon as possible...

 

* * *

 

Looking around, Thomas had the distinct feeling that it all wasn’t real. It was cold, and the whole world had gained something dreamlike, a certain illusory quality that reminded him of a theatre décor. Some things were flat, grey, oddly undefined… while other things were bright and loud, full of sharp edges. There were faces, and he knew their names, but they too seemed unreal, actors behind masks and costumes. His lips moved on their own accord, forming expected words, pronouncing scripted lines… and he couldn’t interfere. He was disconnected from his own body.

Everything felt distant and immaterial. There was a nagging sensation in the back of his mind, like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue… but when he tried to name it, it faded into the cold.

He lost time. Or maybe a second for him was far longer for others. He didn’t know. It was cold and he couldn’t think.

_Maybe I am dead._

Sounds and colours blurred into each other.

_I think I understand them better now._

 

* * *

 

Maglor paced the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil so he could make Thomas some hot tea. The boy had repeatedly tried to reassure him that he was fine, but the vague, absent tinge to his voice and the unfocused haze over his eyes told the Noldo a whole other story. The cold that clung to Thomas wasn’t purely physical, and even though he tried to tell himself otherwise Maglor knew that tea and blankets wouldn’t be enough to chase it away. He could only hope that what other means he had at his disposal would suffice.

_I know they will. Valar know I’ve had to use them often enough._

His mind was full of faces. There was Maedhros, caught in the throws of fever. Elrond and Elros, so brave despite their fear. Daeron, entangled in the memories of his failing mind. Amrod, always only half of what he once was. Curufin, crying for what he had left in Nargothrond. He remembered all of them, and many more. Their faces, some defiant, some pleading, haunted his dreams almost as much as the faces of those he had… No. Maglor broke from his thoughts and resolutely pushed them away before they could escalate. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now.

When after what seemed like an age of pacing in front of his cupboards the water finally boiled, Maglor forced himself to focus on preparing Thomas’ tea. As an afterthought he also made a cup for himself; he would probably need it.

Thomas still sat on the sofa where he had deposited him, covered with a blanket and looking definitely off. He absently accepted the cup of tea, mumbling thanks but not proceeding to drink. Instead he curled his fingers around the porcelain as if to contain the heat, seemingly uncaring of how the cup would burn his hands when held like that. Maglor observed it with great concern.

_Perhaps he doesn’t feel it…_

“You will burn yourself like this.”

The boy confusedly looked up at him.

“She… she said f-frozen kindling doesn’t burn.”

Maglor shook his head.

“Trust me, your hands will. Now drink your tea.”

He silently winced when Thomas obediently brought the steaming cup to his lips and emptied it without flinching.

_I knew it. He doesn’t feel it. He can probably hold a candle to his hand now and not feel it._

Apparently the ghost had disabled Thomas’ perception of heat and pain, but to what purpose Maglor could only guess. Maybe it was some sort of twisted retribution for the burning of the boats? To be ever cold… he could easily imagine a victim of the Grinding Ice wishing that on his father. As far as revenge went it was almost poetic...

_But Thomas isn’t Fëanor. He had nothing to do with it. He should never have been involved in this!_

Once again the deeds of his father had hurt and perhaps permanently damaged an innocent... and why? For a moment Maglor was overcome with bitter resentment. Why was it that whenever his family needed something, they came by it at the expense of others? Mission from the Valar or not, it… It just wasn’t fair.

_But when is anything ever, for us? Doomed and dispossessed we are, and apparently no amount of penance can lift that curse…_

 … … … … 

When he had his emotions back under control, Maglor sat down next to Thomas and wrapped the blanket a little tighter around the boy’s cold form. The medicinal herbs in the tea had left him relaxed and sleepy, and he didn’t protest when the Noldo pulled him closer.

“Thomas?”

“Mmhm?”

He blinked tiredly, and Maglor could tell he was hardly conscious anymore.

_Well, all the better._

“Close your eyes.”

It had been a long time since he had last done this… Ages, in fact. But some things were never unlearned; the songs of healing were still clear as crystal in his mind, and their melody fell from his lips with no less power or ease than it had in the First Age…

 

* * *

 

The cold had draped itself over his thoughts, languidly stretching over what lucidity he had still had left. Thomas didn’t mind it much. He was too tired to think; his whole body felt numb and oddly weightless, and as he drifted on the edge of sleep it was almost comfortable. In a flicker of relative coherence he did wonder where his hands had gone –as he couldn’t feel them- but that thought too quickly dissolved again. His awareness was so diminished he almost didn’t hear the singing… yet the voice, soft and gentle as it was, would not be denied. It persistently refused to blend into the fuzzy muddle of his brain, and even on the brink of losing consciousness Thomas found it impossible to ignore. Once he started listening the song’s power overwhelmed him; it was everywhere at once, too immense to grasp for his dulled senses, and before he could even begin to understand it he was helplessly entranced.

Something warm and bright swept through his being, driving out the cloying cold and enfolding him in what felt like a soft, plush cocoon. It was like sunlight on his skin, and Thomas basked in the warmth, having almost forgotten that something so wonderful existed. He felt safe and cared for, cradled by the soothing cadence of the song… and when eventually the beautiful melody coaxed him to sleep, he gratefully surrendered to it, slipping away in deep, velvety oblivion.

 

* * *

 

Maglor hadn’t had to sing long before Thomas had gone limp in his arms, the strain of the events taking its toll on the boy. As soon as he had succumbed to a profound healing sleep, the elf had carried him to his own bed and tucked him in. Now there wasn’t much he could do except for sitting around and waiting, and occasionally checking the boy’s pulse and temperature.

_What a mess._

He massaged his temples, trying to ease an upcoming headache. It was a small windfall that Thomas staying over for the weekend had already been arranged with the people from the clinic; explaining why their patient was currently both comatose and suffering from hypothermia was not something he had been looking forward to. The elf had the slight feeling that Thomas’ present state made the boy even more of a medical oddity than he already was…

Humans generally didn’t go into a healing sleep, unless as a last resort after receiving severe bodily trauma; the sleep that healed the soul was completely unknown to them. It was one of the things that had over the years convinced Maglor that the perseverance of the human race surpassed that of the elves… Humans didn’t fade when they were marred. On the contrary even, to be marred seemed ingrained in their being, as much a part of it as their limbs or their gender, and they didn’t possess any innate ways of healing it. Even after all this time, it still perplexed him. Men were weak in body, with brief, flighty lifespans and a youth shorter than the life of a cut flower in Aman… yet at the same time they were hardier than most elves in matters of the soul.

In his long life Maglor had seen more horrors than he cared to remember, cruelty that would have given the average servant of Morgoth a run for his money… and he had seen at least as many people bear it. From that, he had come to understand that the necessary union of hröa and fëa was much stronger in humans than in elves, or at least very different. Their soul could be in shreds, but as long as their body lived, they stayed alive. In the same manner, their soul couldn’t remain bound to a gravely damaged body. It was a mixed blessing, if it was one at all… but either way it deserved his respect. He knew well enough what it was like to live with a damaged fëa.

As he watched Thomas, something tightened in Maglor’s throat. The boy looked awfully young and fragile against the white sheets, nearly unrecognizable without his customary glare and ever-fiddling fingers. Even in sleep he seemed exhausted, with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, only made worse by the paleness of his skin… So vulnerable, as if the least blow could shatter him. How had he missed that? Maglor shook his head. How had he so easily forgotten that Thomas was only an eighteen-year-old, mortal boy?

_He makes it easy to forget._

The knowledge that Thomas was very young had always sat in the back of his mind, but it had been immaterial, negligible most of the time. The boy had always appeared older than he was, taller and stronger, somehow more deliberate in his words and actions than one his age should be. His actual age had been easy to forget. Confronted with the physical evidence however, there was no denying it. Maglor carefully studied Thomas’ motionless form. His body was still somewhat in that awkward teenage phase, when everything was growing and changing disproportionately and you mostly looked as if you were going to trip over your own feet… yet he already had the makings of a handsome man. In a couple of years he would be fully-grown, and Maglor dared say, quite attractive.

_In a couple of years… if nothing happens to him in the meantime._

And this debacle certainly proved that that wasn’t even remotely self-evident.

The elf remembered the unpleasant conversation that had led to them going to Caroline’s party, and suddenly felt he had been cruel. Thomas had been right; he had indeed wanted to control him. Not consciously, but that made little difference; he hadn’t in the least considered the boy’s wellbeing. Maglor felt something very much akin to shame burn in his chest. He had never done the effort to get to know Thomas better. The boy had of course rebuffed all his half-hearted attempts at more personal conversation, but that wasn’t an excuse, at any rate he could have given it an honest try. And then Caroline… He should have been happy that Thomas got to experience at least a fraction of the things normal for his age-group, but that hadn’t even crossed his mind; all he had thought about was what it would mean for himself.

_I’m still my father’s son, it seems…_

The realization left a sour taste in his mouth.

Even so, he did wonder how much of what happened to Thomas was really random, and how much of it was orchestrated by the Valar. He felt there had been a little too much “coincidence” lately for it to be entirely coincidental…

 

* * *

 

Waking up felt strange, like slowly drifting back to the surface after being under water for a long time. It took a while before he was aware enough to question where he was and what had happened… and he felt a mysterious lack of panic at not knowing the answer to those questions. It was an odd sensation.

_I should probably be terrified… but… well, it’s not as if I woke up in an ice bath without my kidneys. And this bed is really comfortable._

The room he was in was sparsely but tastefully furnished, with large latticed windows to provide it with plenty of natural light. The elegant curves of the furniture were repeated in a decorative pattern on the soft yellow walls, and Thomas fascinatedly watched how the design seemed to change with the interplay of light and shadow. Everything in the room was permeated by a sense of quiet beauty, and even though he was sure he had never been there before, it still felt… familiar. And quite cosy, really.

_Now if only I remembered where I am and how I got here, that would be wonderful._

He didn’t have to wait long for his wish to be fulfilled… Looking around, Thomas located his clothes, neatly folded on a chair next to the bed, and as soon as he saw those, things started to come back. The pleasant calm fell from his thoughts like a veil, and a profound shiver ran down his spine when flashes of –what he hoped was- the night before assaulted his mind. It wasn't long before he remembered everything, making him curse wholeheartedly.

“Fucking hell!”

Breathing heavily, Thomas blinked to dispel the images from his retina. The room felt colder than it had before, and he had to force himself not to curl under the blanket again. Elenwë’s memory of the Helcaraxë was really something he could have done without… Rubbing the goose bumps from his arms, he decided that if he ever came across Fëanaro Curufinwë, he would give him all this and then some.

_A troubled individual, my ass. I know “troubled”. I’m troubled. Maglor’s dad is in a whole other category of fucked-up-ness._

He was just debating whether he should find Maglor or look for a bathroom first, when the elf entered the room.

“Ah, you’re awake. I thought you might be.”

Almost automatically, Thomas raised an eyebrow at him and dryly asked,

“What gave me away?”

Equally dryly, Maglor remarked,

“The swearing may have had something to do with that.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Yes. The walls are thin. Old house and all.”

As they uneasily eyed each other, Thomas was very conscious of the fact that he was lying quasi-naked in the Noldo’s bed, and that Maglor had probably had to undress him. He usually wasn’t uncomfortable with his body, but thinking about that was just… awkward. 

“I…err… I guess we have to talk?”

Maglor nervously scraped his throat.

“Yes. I… I’ll wait downstairs. The bathroom is first door to your left. Take your time.”

When the elf left Thomas cursed again, under his breath this time. He didn’t know how their talk would go, but if this was an indication, “awkward” wouldn’t exactly cover it…

… … … … 

Finding his overnight bag –that he had completely forgotten about- in the bathroom did a great deal to improve Thomas’ mood, and after a shower and a shave he felt loads better. That didn’t make him any more comfortable about the conversation that awaited him though, on the contrary even. He somewhat felt like an intruder, and when he entered the kitchen and found that Maglor had prepared him scrambled eggs and bacon, he was positively mortified.

_He made me breakfast? I insulted him, caused him trouble, and then passed out on his couch… and he makes me breakfast? I’m a horrible person._

Maglor was leaning against the kitchen counter, managing to look poised and extremely tense at the same time.

“I made you something to eat. It’s rather late in the day for breakfast, but… I guessed you might be hungry.”

Thomas opened his mouth to thank him, but his stomach beat him to it with a loud and hungry rumble. He inwardly face-palmed.

_Oh thank you intestines. That was great. This situation really called for a show of whale mating calls. Thank you so much. What a conversation starter._

Nevertheless Maglor didn’t comment on it and just handed him his plate, and after that the only sound in the kitchen was Thomas eating. While he was trying his best not to eat too fast, chew too loud, or pay too much attention to the elf’s observant stare, he wondered what he should say once he was out of food to muffle himself with. How did you even begin a conversation like this? Thomas let his mind run over several options, but everything he managed to come up with were variations to the “Yeah, you told me so and I didn’t listen, I’m sorry for being a dumbass”-theme.

Eventually he found himself scraping his fork a little aimlessly over the plate, hoping in vain that there would be one more bite delay of execution. The tension in the kitchen was cutting, and Maglor’s unnerving way of looking at him without blinking enough wasn’t helping the least… The elf was the first to take the word, hesitantly.

“Thomas, I…”

He interrupted him before he could finish his sentence, blurting out,

“Look, I’m sorry okay? I… I’m sorry. You were right, I was wrong, I should have listened to you, my bad. I’m sorry I caused you trouble.”

Maglor looked at him with raised eyebrows, visibly surprised.

“You… are sorry?”

Thomas wanted to slam his face in his plate. Of course that wasn’t the way to put it.

“I mean… I insulted you, and you still took me to that party even though you could barely stand to look me in the face. And then I thanked you by getting in a fight with a rancorous ghost, causing a scene, and passing out on your couch. I’m sorry.”

The elf now looked as if he had gotten a slap in the face. Thomas bit his lip. He hadn’t accidentally delivered another insult, had he?

_That would be so like me._

 

* * *

 

When Thomas entered the kitchen, he wasn’t the vulnerable child that Maglor had carefully tucked in his bed that night, nor the confused teen he had found there earlier that day. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something about the boy had changed… and it unsettled him. There was a certain austerity in Thomas’ countenance that struck a painfully familiar chord.

_Hollowed and hardened…_

He had never been able to look his cousins in the eye again without flinching inside. They had carried the ice in their gaze, harsh and cold yet burning… and even when a tentative understanding had been reached, and they had no longer spoken of what had happened in Losgar, their eyes had never failed to remind him. Maglor suppressed a shiver. He had thought it impossible for a mortal to have this look, to have such intensity in his eyes without the light of Valinor…

Thomas’ sudden apologies startled him, and when the boy elaborated, he cringed inwardly. Hesitatingly he uttered,

“I… You… You never insulted me.”

That earned him a frown.

“Then why were you angry with me? And don’t say you weren’t angry, because you totally were.”

Maglor swallowed thickly. How was he supposed to say this? How could he properly explain that he hadn’t been angry with Thomas so much as with himself?

“You… you remind me of things, sometimes.”

He watched as the boy’s face dropped.

“I make you think of your father, isn’t it?”

Maglor weakly nodded.

“Sometimes.”

Thomas stared at his plate.

“And that was why you were mad at me? Because you’re actually pissed at your dad and I remind you of him?”

“No.”

“Then what was it?”

The harshness in the boy’s voice startled him.

“It’s difficult to explain.”

Thomas sent him a dark look.

“Try me.”

Maglor sighed.

“I was mad at myself more than anything else, really. The memories you bring back generally aren’t my proudest moments. I…” He hesitated for a moment. “It is I who should be apologizing to you. I treated you very unfairly.”

To his surprise, Thomas only shrugged.

“You let me sleep in your bed and made me breakfast after I caused you a heap of trouble and ignored all your warnings, I wouldn’t call that unfair treatment. You were right to oppose my _thing_ with Caroline; I’m obviously not in the position to be involved with anyone at the moment.”

It was unexpectedly rational, but Maglor could clearly hear the cynicism in his voice. He shook his head.

“No. No matter what happened this time, you have every right to a life outside of our mission and I was wrong to oppose that. You are an adult by the standards of your kind. If you want to be with Caroline, it is not my place to say you can’t.”

Thomas smirked bitterly.

“I doubt Caroline will want anything to do with me anymore. After that show I gave her yesterday, I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t file a restraining order.”

Maglor shook his head.

“Isn’t that a little exaggerated?”

The boy shrugged again.

“Maybe. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to call back though.” He snapped his shoulders and continued with an air of false levity, “Ah well. Did you notice her cousin looks a lot like your uncle?”

“It was… hard to miss.” Suddenly realizing the oddness of the remark, Maglor frowned. “How do you know what my uncle looks like? Was the ghost by any chance…?”

Thomas’ lopsided smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Long story. And no, the ghost wasn’t your uncle. I don’t think I would have survived that, to be honest. It was your cousin-by-marriage, Elenwë. Apparently, Thelma is her last descendant.”

“Elenwë?”

Maglor couldn’t picture it. Even though it made sense, for she had died on the ice and was indeed of the house of Fingolfin, it was difficult to imagine Turgon’s beautiful Vanyarin wife as anything less than perfectly virtuous. Elenwë had always been kind yet strong-willed, even-tempered but resolute, a perfect match for his rather unsociable cousin. She had been one of the only people able to make him laugh…

_And after he lost her, he never laughed again._

But if spirits truly turned evil after a while...

“What did she do to you?”

Thomas’ veneer of flippancy chipped off before Maglor’s very eyes at that question, revealing for a moment the boy’s inner turmoil. It was gone almost as swiftly as it came, but the elf knew he hadn't imagined it. The boy's answer was too studied, too calculated to properly fit with the rest of the conversation, betraying how uncomfortable he was.

“I don’t really know, I don’t remember much. It was very cold, and when she touched me I saw flashes of what I think were memories. It’s all rather hazy, I don’t remember any details. I think I only remembered your uncle’s face because he looked so much like Thelma.”

Maglor sensed there was much more to it, but he held his tongue. He couldn’t fault the boy for keeping secrets and talking around things when he did a pretty good job at that himself… In time, they would talk things over. In time. For now, this would have to do. They would make do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so late! I hope no one thought I had given up on this story, because I really hadn't! I have been laboring over this chapter for almost three weeks, and sometimes I managed to write like… only one paragraph in an hour. It went SO slow! But now I finally managed to complete it, and it's extra long too, so… forgive me? Also, big thanks to TheSillyKitten, my parter in brainstorming and torment of fictional characters, without whom this chapter probably still wouldn't be finished.
> 
> There are several very important things in this chapter. As usual, I'll start at the beginning.
> 
> YES, THE MEMORY SEQUENCE IS LONG. This is on purpose. Usually, the memory-sharing is an accidental thing, now it was done on purpose, initiated by Elenwë. I hope I managed to convey what kind of person she was before her death, and also place her creepiness into perspective.
> 
> "Istanyë celdelelyá… Nolofinwë?" basically means "I know your face… Nolofinwë?" I thought that would be clear form the context, but mentioning it is never bad.
> 
> Thomas is experiencing derealization, an existing state of altered perception that causes you -among other things- to feel your surroundings are unreal. As a condition on its own it is categorized under dissociative disorders, and often caused by very traumatic experiences. It can also be a symptom of other illnesses, like schizophrenia and epilepsy, or an effect of brain damage.
> 
> Maglor's observations about the necessary union of hroä and fëa are IMPORTANT. Seriously. Basically it comes down to humans being more "physical" than elves.
> 
> Both elves and humans are incarnate, but in elves the body is subordinate to the soul. They can of course be slain, that's what the whole union-of-body-and-soul thing is about, but in general elves can survive much worse injuries than humans, withstand much worse physical conditions, and endure much longer in bad circumstances. As long as their will isn't broken and their bodies aren't completely beyond healing, they'll hang on. On the other hand, when their soul is gravely wounded, they are likely to just… die, even when their physical body is completely undamaged. In humans, the soul is subordinate to the body; they can't sustain as much physical damage, but no matter how much mental pain someone is in, they won't die from it (unless they help fate a hand by suicide, of course.)
> 
> And then there is the awkward. So much awkward. I like to think elves don't have to blink as often as humans, which would give them the most unsettling stare ever. (Maglor probably compensates, but not when his mind is elsewhere) And Thomas is just being his regular old self, plus extra Helcaraxë experience. (He remembers everything clearly, he just doesn't want to talk about it)
> 
> Please tell me what you thought about it! Opinions, ideas, theories, questions, everything is welcome! I love feedback ;) Since I had so much work on this chapter, I'd like to know if I managed to keep it readable...


	7. Beautiful Horrible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the encounter with Elenwë, Thomas and Maglor both struggle to find their footing…

The sword lay heavy in his hand, the resonant hum of the steel strangely reassuring as he closed his fingers around the hilt. Thomas didn't know why he had taken it out of the closet. He just knew that he needed to hold on to something, and the sword was as good a choice as any.

_Or is it?_

He sighed. Maglor was worried about him. The elf thought he was being really subtle about it, but he kept forgetting that he had a face like an open book. Not to mention that calling their ghost-hunting activities to a temporary halt wasn't exactly a subtle sign of worry. Thomas shook his head to himself. He had of course protested, but secretly he was grateful for the reprieve. He was loath to admit it, but the Noldo might just have reason to be worried. Ever since his encounter with Elenwë, he dreamed of the Ice. The bitter cold darkness refused to let him sleep, and night after night he woke up writhing in cold sweat, with treacherous creaking in his ears and unfamiliar names on his lips. It was as if his mind was stuck in a loop, forced to re-run the entire sequence time and again…

Thomas hadn't told anyone, but the bags under his eyes probably spoke volumes about the amount of much sleep he was getting. Right now, he was almost tempted to actually take the sleep medication they prescribed him…

He had attempted to capture his muddled thoughts in pictures, draw it out as he had drawn out Celegorm and Caranthir… but he couldn't. It was a physical inability. Whenever he took a pencil in his hand, it felt as if he was trying to funnel an ocean through a shower hose; it was too much, too big to put on paper. His hands would start to tremble from the moment he even picked up his sketchpad, and if he persisted, the pressure would build until his head pounded with flashes of memory and he almost choked on his own breath. Thomas shut his eyes and shivered. It was not half as frustrating as it was terrifying. He had always drawn, from the moment he had been old enough to hold a crayon. Things he saw, things he felt, things he imagined… he had been one of those textbook examples of children who drew in black when they were sad and in red when they were angry, expressing his feelings in shapes and colours before he had words for them. Even when he couldn't communicate, he had been able to draw. To lose that… It was more than painful. Ever since he couldn't draw anymore, his brain was running mad with tension; as it looked now, he would probably end up losing his mind.

_Terrifying indeed. Soon I'll fit right in with the décor here, another loony in the bin…_

The sword helped though, weird as that was. Thomas had picked it up on impulse, to give his restless hands something to cling to, but holding it had proven unexpectedly relieving. The weapon's solid materiality was like an anchor tying him firmly to the present, and the metal's quiet vibration soothed his overheated mind until he had a grip on it again. After the first surprise, he had quickly seen how it made sense. Fighting was stressful business; a sword that helped its wielder stay calm in the heat of battle would be a definite advantage.

_The same feature that now helps me keep my composure has probably helped Maglor's dad commit murder. Or kin-slaying, whatever they called it back then._

Thomas supposed he should find that an unnerving thought. As it was however, he couldn't bring himself to care. He just clenched the hilt and sent a silent word of thanks to Maglor. This wasn't what he had pictured when the elf said he would need the sword… but needing it he did all the same.

For a while he sat on his bed with the sword, studying it intently. He only broke from his musings when someone knocked on his door, making him shove the blade under his bedding as fast as he could.

_Let's hope I didn't rip the sheets. That might be hard to explain…_

He had only just stashed away the weapon when a nurse entered with a folder of pictures under her arm. As he hadn't missed mealtime or thrown a tantrum for a good while now, didn't get new therapies since he was seeing Maglor, and knew literally no one who would visit him here, Thomas did wonder what they had to say to him… The nurse looked unusually stressed, and he was already thinking they had discovered he buried his pills in the therapy garden these days, when she began pointing at her pictures and over-articulated loudly,

"You. Have. A. Vi-si-tor."

_Oh. Fancy that._

* * *

 

 

Thomas wasn't doing well, at all. Maglor had tried to ignore it at first, telling himself that it was just a remnant of the shock, that it would wear off in time... but days had passed and there had been no improvement. If anything, things had gone downhill. Every day Thomas' gaze seemed wearier, his cheeks more sunken, his moods more volatile; the boy was wasting away and Maglor didn't know how to stop it. He had put their mission on a hiatus to give him time to recover, but all that had done was make their conversations more awkward. It seemed that without the ghost hunting as a common ground, they had very little to talk about... Thomas didn't speak of his past or family, and neither did he; they both just tiptoed around the issues without ever saying much, their talks reduced to safe subjects like the weather and how to correctly use the past participle. And meanwhile, whatever was troubling Thomas continued to run its course. As he watched the boy's health deteriorate, Maglor cursed his own cowardice. He was older than the sun and the moon, the thought of facing an adolescent with an explosive temper about what was bothering him shouldn't be so daunting…

_But he never looks more like Fëanor than when he's angry._

It was a thought the Noldo preferred not to investigate too closely.

Something had to be done though. Maglor had already resigned himself to an unpleasant head-on confrontation, when an unexpected phone call offered him another way to break the stalemate. Before he might have thought twice about picking up… but now he only had to take one look at the name on the display to make a decision.

_There's little harm in trying._

* * *

 

Thomas had expected anyone; some government official, his late father's lawyer, maybe even old classmates… but not her. Not Caroline. And yet, there she was. She stood awkwardly in the door opening, hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her green tunic top as she hesitantly eyed him. In the back of his mind Thomas knew that he was expected to say something now… but he was struck speechless, the words just wouldn't come. He stared at her, and somehow all he could think of was how beautiful she looked with that nervous blush colouring her cheeks. His face probably betrayed his bafflement, for she sent him a timid smile and explained,

"I called your translator. I only had his number, and when you didn't call me after what happened at the party I was worried you weren't okay. I… He…" She shrugged a little aimlessly. "He explained things to me. The ghosts, and why you don't speak English, and that you live in a hospital and so on… It's… He didn't tell me to visit or anything so please don't be mad at him, it's just… I…" Her voice faltered, and when he didn't respond she frowned. "Don't just sit there like that! Say something!"

That startled his wits right back into him. Thomas helplessly looked at her, struggling to find the right expression. "I… I did think… err.. thought… you will not see me again, after the problem with the ghost. I wish to excuse, err… apa… apologize I give problems on your party. I did not mean to. I am sorry."

He winced. His grammar and vocabulary skills were limited at the best of times, and the sudden pressure to perform wasn't exactly helping things.

_If Maglor didn't already make me out as a complete buffoon, this should do it…_

Caroline shook her head though, as always undeterred by his lacking linguistic ability. "No, I should apologize. I knew that what you did could be dangerous, and I still didn't stop Thelma when she came up with the Ouija board idea. If anything, I thought you didn't want to see me anymore." She nervously licked her lips. "But… well, you really looked like a mess when you left, and I was worried. And frankly, I… I didn't want that to have been the last time we saw each other. So I came here. If you want me to leave, I'll leave. But I had to see you again. I had to give it a chance."

She sighed, having said all she had to say… and in that instant Thomas knew exactly what to answer.

"Don't leave. Please. Come to the garden with me? To talk?"

The way her dejected expression turned into a radiant smile told him all he needed to know.

… … …

"So… you do not think this is much too weird?" They were sitting together on the bench under the tulip tree, and Thomas just couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Caroline was actually there. Maglor had apparently told her almost everything, including the highly unlikely part where he had woken up from a coma speaking a dead language… and somehow she didn't think they were both completely insane. That dratted elf had basically chucked the whole bucket of crazy right over her head, and she had still come to see him. Thomas thought it was nothing short of incredible.

"Much too weird?" Caroline raised an eyebrow. "Thomas, of course I think it's weird. You can hardly deny that it is kind of weird, really. But I don't think you're crazy, if that's what you're asking. I mean… I can hardly doubt that ghosts are real anymore, after everything that has happened. And if ghosts are real, who knows what else might be real too?" She shrugged. "I have always believed there is more to the world than we know. Besides, if people can wake up from a near-death experience as a math genius, or with memories of past lives, why would it be impossible to wake up speaking another language?" She smiled apprehensively. "It's not much too weird. At least not to me."

She sat closer to him than strictly necessary, just close enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin and pick up her subtle scent. Thomas was reminded of how she had pressed herself against him on the dance floor, sensuously grinding her hips against him as his hands had wandered over her curves… As the memory resurfaced full force, the urge to pull her in and kiss the hesitation from her face was almost unbearable. Slightly embarrassed, Thomas tried to think of something else.

"Why… why did you come here?"

Caroline stared at her feet, her hair falling before her face like a curtain.

"I told you, I wanted to see you again."

"Why?"

She warily eyed him from under a veil of auburn tresses.

"Because I like you, Thomas Ashworth. I like you a lot. I know it's stupid of me, but… I can't help it."

This could not be happening. It could not. Thomas realized with sudden clarity that this was the moment. It was now or never. Following an instinct he hadn't known he possessed, he reached out and tucked a couple unruly strands of hair behind her ear, softly caressing her cheek and auricle when he did so.

"Istanya ná ve istatya."

Caroline's cheeks turned an adorable shade of red at his touch, and she stumbled,

"What…w-what does t-that… m-"

He bent closer, and whispered in her ear,

"It means the feeling is mutual."

Her breath hitched, her eyes widened, and for a single, nerve-wracking moment Thomas felt as if the whole world was crashing down on him. Next thing he knew their lips met, and his rambling thoughts melted away in the delight of her soft mouth. Caroline was warm and wet, and the taste lingering on her tongue was so very her that it awoke a ravenous lust in him. He hungrily deepened the kiss, hands tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer. The feeling was deliciously maddening, like a tingling current running through his body and setting his nerve ends on fire... It was wonderful and Thomas never wanted it to stop.

When eventually they did pull apart, all he could see and feel was her; his senses were saturated with her presence, and the only thought in his mind was to claim her delectable mouth again. Caroline seemed at least as entranced, her lips parted in need when she looked up at him with lust-filled eyes. Clutching his shirt, she uttered breathlessly,

"That… Again."

"Ve merityë…"

Thomas didn't manage an answer in English… but as they eagerly plundered each other's mouths once more, it appeared that no translation was needed.

Their lips were bruised and the visiting hours almost over when they were finally sated. Caroline lay against him, her reddish-brown hair ticking Thomas' face as he absent-mindedly wound his fingers through it, carefully removing the tulip tree's fallen petals. He silently wondered if kissing felt like this for everyone. It certainly hadn't felt like this when his awkward fourteen-year-old self had kissed Lucy Simmons behind the bicycle shed…

_Good gods. That was awful. I can't believe I still remember that._

He didn't really want to reminiscence about the embarrassing bumping of noses and scratching of braces that had been his first kiss, certainly not now he had Caroline in his arms. Thomas sighed. He was more awake and clear-headed than he had been in days, but even so it was hard to believe this was real. What had gotten into this beautiful woman to make her want to be with him?

_Maybe it is divine intervention. Like, the Gods being all, "Hey there, we're sorry for the inconvenience, us fucking up your life and all that. Have a gorgeous female for your trouble. Will you now please hunt ghosts again?"_

He shook his head at that. If Maglor's Valar were involved, there was probably another shoe waiting to drop. And if not… He sighed again, burying his face in Caroline's hair.

"You do not know what you are getting in with."

Caroline shifted in his arms.

"I know, I don't. But I intend to find out."

Thomas paused, the bliss of moments before giving way to an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

"Maybe… Maybe you will not like what you find out."

"I doubt that. What's not to like about you?"

He contemptuously smirked at that.

"Well… I can make a list."

_I am an institutionalized, language-impaired high school dropout with brain damage, anger issues, a divine mission, and possibly a budding mental illness or two. As for social skills, my only sort-of-friend is a millennia old elf-slash-therapist who should probably get therapy himself, and even he can't stand me half the time. Really, what's not to like?_

He of course didn't elaborate, but the self-deprecation in his voice had not been lost on Caroline. She sat up and pulled him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. Her green eyes were startlingly fierce and her voice nothing short of commanding when she spoke up.

"Now you listen to me. If there were nothing to like about you, I wouldn't be here. I'm a very choosy person, and I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean. I like you. You are interesting and talented, and far more compassionate than I think you give yourself credit for. I want to get to know you better." Her expression softened. "All of you; issues, mood-swings, ghosts and grumpy translator included."

He could feel her, feel her heartbeat, her breath stroking his face, her hand resting hotly on his skin; it was a torrent of tiny sensations that suddenly seemed amplified and overwhelming to him. He had wanted to say something… but faced with the sensory overload, his tongue was indisposed for anything other than kissing her.

_Hell, I really don't deserve her._

Caroline smiled against his lips.

"Don't think you can kiss yourself out of every tough conversation, young man."

He chuckled.

"I can try…"

"Tsss… Wouldn't count on it."

They were silent for a moment, foreheads touching, lips not far apart enough for entirely coherent thought. Then, Caroline drew away, leaning back against the bench with a sensuous glint in her eyes.

"Would you draw me sometime?"

Thomas felt his blood run cold. From the moment they had met he had wanted to draw her. His hands had itched to draw every little thing about her; her generous smile, her tousled hair, the soft curve of her breasts before they disappeared in her top... And now she offered it, and he couldn't. This would be one conversation he could not kiss himself out of… As he struggled to find a good answer, her face fell.

"I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." She blushed embarrassedly. "I guess I should have known, I'm sorry. Is it because you only draw the dead?"

Thomas felt conflicted. It would be so easy to agree, to say that he couldn't draw her because she was alive. His room was full of pictures of dead people after all, mangled corpses as well as unsettling ghost-portraits; he didn't think he had drawn a living thing since the accident. She would never ask again, and he would never have to explain any further. It was tempting… but he didn't want to lie, not about this. He shook his head.

"No, it's… I… I can't draw anymore." "How do you mean?" "I just can't." He shook his head again. "I can't draw anymore."

How could he ever explain this? How was he supposed to find the words to describe it in this unfamiliar, tongue-wringing language when he couldn't even talk about it in Quenya? Thomas groaned in frustration.

"Tell me why. Please."

Caroline had taken his hands in hers. There was nothing but kindness in her eyes, sympathy and willingness to understand. She truly wanted to listen. Thomas weighed his options, but inside he already knew it was an offer he couldn't resist. He sighed.

"Ghosts show things to me. Memories. They… they share what hurts them. It helps them let go."

"They share their lives?"

"Not all of it. Just what haunts them."

_The worst bits, mostly._

Caroline pensively nodded.

"And?"

He closed his eyes.

"The ghost at the party was… old, very old. Long time ago, her people went over a great size of ice, to find a new place to live. There was hunger and cold, snowstorm, great dangers… Many died. She died too." Thomas shivered as the Helcaraxë drew back to the forefront of his mind. His voice broke. "I draw to understand. But I can't draw this, what she show me… it is… it is too much. I don't know how to draw it. But it wants to be drawn, and I can't draw any other thing anymore."

_It haunts my mind. It haunts my dreams. I can't sleep anymore and it's making me sick._

As if she knew that words would only make things harder at this point, Caroline just took him in a comforting embrace, calmly rocking him in her arms. Thomas gratefully let himself be soothed by her warmth and closeness… but after a couple moments he felt slightly guilty as well. What right did he have to ask this of her? He barely knew her! And what an impression he must make… Ashamed, he broke from her hold.

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I…"

"No. You have nothing to be sorry for." She held a finger to his lips when he tried to interject again. "What you do is an amazing thing. You help people you never knew find peace, even if it harms you in the process. How many people do you think can say that?"

He sighed.

"You make me sound… selfless. I am not."

She shook her head.

"It's not about being selfless. It's about doing something that matters. And what you do matters, Thomas. To every one of those people who would still be lost if not for you, it matters the world."

He had no answer to that, so he just let Caroline pull him back in the comfort of her arms.

… … …

That night Thomas' sleep was deep and dreamless, for the first time since returning to the clinic. When he woke up the next morning, he felt unusually clear-headed, as if a shroud had been lifted from his thoughts. Everything seemed much brighter somehow, sharper and better defined… It was strange but far from unpleasant, especially when compared to how he had felt before. Nevertheless, Thomas didn't entirely trust it. Looking through his room, he got the distinct feeling that he was missing something, that something important was escaping him. He got up, got dressed, and tried to go about his business the usual way, but the nagging feeling wouldn't leave him… Until suddenly, realization dawned on him. His drawings. Thomas could slap himself. How had he not seen that? He was an idiot. His problem wasn't a matter of skill; it was a matter of medium, of material! Unlike the faces of the dead, the horrors of the Helcaraxë would not be caught in mere pencil and paper. It was logical! He should have… He would need something else, something bigger, something more… He could… His thoughts raced, and as an idea took shape in his head and the thrum of inspired anticipation ran through him, Thomas just couldn't contain in his excitement. He threw his head back and laughed out loud, quite possibly scaring whoever was in the hallway at that time.

"Utúvienyes!"

* * *

 

"Aní lehta, húna úvanimo! ANÍ LEHTA! Héca! Vá! VÁ!"

Maglor had hoped that the visit from Caroline would help. Her reactions to what he had told her had been more than encouraging after all, and she had seemed quite taken with Thomas despite everything. His hopes were dashed though when he stepped out of the elevator on Thomas' floor and was greeted with screamed Quenya and what sounded most like crashing furniture somewhere down the hallway. Anita Beardsley stood at the nurse's station, wringing her hands.

"Mr Smith!"

He frowned at her.

"What is going on?"

The blonde doctor made a helpless gesture.

"It's Thomas. He's having a violent episode. Never seen before, really. They're… They're subduing him now."

Or at least trying to, her look said. Maglor got a cold sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"A violent episode?"

The Noldo wasn't sure what he had to picture with that… But he dearly hoped the sword had not been involved. He questioningly eyed the doctor, who bit her lip.

"We don't know what happened. He seemed in such a good mood this morning, appeared at breakfast, even greeted the nurses…" She shook her head. "Then he went to the communal craft room, for the first time since he is here. We actually thought it was a good thing that he finally showed some interest in communal activities and being among people…"

"But?"

"Nothing happened at first. He didn't cause trouble, just prepared himself a canvas and paint and started working…" She sighed. "But you see, we close the craft room every day before lunch, because other departments uses it in the afternoon. It's simply a hospital rule."

Maglor was starting to understand what had happened.

"And he did not respond well when you interrupted his work?"

Dr Beardsley winced.

"Quite. He stayed in the craft room when the others left, ignored the attendant when she asked him to leave, and when she tried to get his attention by grabbing his wrist, he yelled and hit her straight in the face, only to immediately return to his painting when she backed off. The poor woman was in a state! She called for the orderlies, and…" The doctor nodded in the direction of the screaming. "I guess you can hear what that resulted in."

Maglor closed his eyes as a memory hit him. Once, when he had been just a little elfling, Nerdanel had unthinkingly sent him into the smithy to see if Fëanor wanted dinner… He didn't recall the peculiarities of the event, but it had involved yelling and threatening and he had been scared to go near his father for weeks after it. He shook his head. Inspiration was a cruel mistress; Valar knew he had found that out himself eventually...

"I must go see him."

The blonde looked uncertain.

"I… I don't know if that's a good idea. He is…"

"I want to see him. He is probably terrified."

_More like extremely pissed off…_

Dr Beardsley resolutely shook her head though.

"I cannot allow you to see him until he is restrained."

The wait wasn't long. Soon enough the screaming toned down, and two orderlies came out of the hallway, looking a little worse for wear. One of them shook his head at Dr Beardsley.

"All fixed, but man, did he put up a fight! What do you put that kid on?"

"Is he safely restrained?"

A half-grin curled the orderly's lips.

"Shut up and tied down. He's going nowhere soon, if that's what you're asking."

Maglor was repulsed by the man's callous attitude, and he feared he would lash out if he had to hear any more of it. Without waiting for Dr Beardsley, he walked with great strides to Thomas' room and entered without knocking. The place was a mess, and not just in terms of toppled furniture. A confusing mixture of emotions permeated the whole room, too much and too tangled to identify separately, and in the middle of it all lay Thomas, tied to the bed by his wrists, ankles, and waist. A stream of broken Quenya fell from his lips as he weakly struggled against the restraints, eyes both glazed and frighteningly intense.

"I have to… must… let me go… I have t-to work… No…"

Looking at him, feeling his despair and powerless frustration, a wave of fierce protectiveness fell over the Noldo. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to untie the boy and take him far away from this place… He carefully approached the bed.

"Thomas?"

Hazy eyes tried to focus on him.

"Maglor…"

Another useless tug on the restraints.

"It's me. Ssssh…"

He gently stroked the boy's sweat-soaked hair.

"T-They don't under…s-stand. I have to work… It's m-making me crazy…"

"Sssh…"

"No…" Again he weakly pulled the ties that held him in place. "Y-you don't understand… I need to work… It's coming out…" He glanced at Maglor with a chilling kind of desperate determination in his eyes, a blazing madness that the elf unfortunately knew all too well. "It's t-too… too m-much… It makes m-me crazy… It needs to c-come out…"

"It's all right…"

"It's not!" Thomas' hoarse voice broke. "It's not… T-they have t-to let m-me work…"

"I will see what I can do. I will talk to them. But you need to rest."

"T-they have t-to… I c-can't…"

"Ssssh…"

Whispering soothingly, Maglor continued to stroke the boy's head as his phrases became shorter and his movements weaker. Eventually Thomas' erratic breathing calmed, and his eyes gained a glassy, faraway look, as in reverie. Something inside the elf clenched painfully at the sight of that…

_So much like my father… and yet not._

The vacant stare was unnatural for a human, and probably caused by the sedative they had given him… yet it made the unsettling resemblance only greater. Maglor gently closed the boy's eyes, and then began untying the restraints. There was no reason he should be kept in such an uncomfortable position. When he was done, the elf fluffed Thomas' pillow and carefully tucked him in. He didn't know how long the sedative would work, but he would stay as long as the doctors allowed him.

* * *

 

On a list of unpleasant experiences, waking up from forced sedation would score pretty high. The first thing Thomas became aware of was the dryness of his mouth; his throat was parched, his lips chapped, and his tongue felt like it had hung out to dry in the Mojave Desert. He fruitlessly tried to lick his lips, but all that resulted in was a taste of blood when he reopened the cracks. The discomfort woke him up further, making him aware of how stiff and achy his entire body was.

Fucking hell. I feel like someone ran me over. Twice.

Slowly the fog cleared from his mind and he started to remember what had happened… and with the recollection, the urgency of what had brought him to it returned as well. He jumped up with a start, only to be gently pushed back into the pillows.

"Sssh… Open your eyes first."

Thomas slowly cracked his eyes open, wincing at the light.

"Maglor?"

His voice was a painfully dry rasp, and he aimlessly moved his tongue over his palate in hopes of producing some saliva. As he sat up, a glass of water was pressed in his hands.

"Here. That should help."

Thomas gratefully sipped it, yet not without a questioning look at the elf. He didn't really know how to feel about Maglor sitting at his bedside. He hadn't kicked or bitten him, had he? His memories of the fight were rather disjointed…

"W-What time is it?"

The elf checked his watch.

"It's two in the afternoon. You've slept for almost 20 hours straight."

That must have been one hell of a sedative… Or maybe his body had just caught up with his exhaustion, Thomas didn't know. What he did know was that there were things he had to do. He quickly finished his water, eager to get back to work… but Maglor noticed his haste before he could even put the empty glass on the bedside table. He held up his hand.

"I know you want to get back to your craft. Trust me, I understand. But there are some things you need to hear and agree to, or I will not hesitate to tie you to this bed again."

Thomas raised an eyebrow at that, but it was clear from the way he looked that the Noldo was dead serious.

"Go on…"

"I spoke to Dr Beardsley, and she is willing to make an exception for you. You will be allowed in the craft room every day, mornings and afternoons. This is a great privilege, and it is only extended on the following conditions. Three meals a day, 8 hours of sleep minimum, and reasonable care for personal hygiene. No violence, verbal or physical, towards hospital personnel or fellow patients. You also do not damage any equipment or ignore the craft room attendant when he or she tells you to leave. Any failure to comply with these conditions will result in having the privilege taken away."

There was something very strict and authoritative about the Noldo's tone, an intangible order woven in his words that made protesting very hard. Thomas suddenly found he had no more problems imagining the elf as a commander of armies… He nodded and rasped,

"I agree to the conditions."

Maglor nodded as well. No less sternly he said,

"In that case we have a deal. Now get up, take a shower, and then go eat your lunch. They have kept a plate for you."

Any other time Thomas would have been incensed by the blatant dominance the elf was exerting… Yet now his thoughts were already half on his project again, and the clear, uncomplicated instructions proved oddly comforting next to the turmoil of ideas and images that flooded his mind. As he dragged his aching body to the bathroom, Thomas wondered if Maglor knew.

_Maybe he does understand it..._

…. …. ….

The following weeks passed in a haze. Eat, work, eat, work, eat, sleep, and repeat. Thomas forced himself to comply with the agreed conditions, tearing himself away from his work at set times, eating what was on his plate even when he barely tasted it, refraining from pacing around at night though his mind granted him no rest. If he thought about something other than his project, it was Caroline. Maglor had told her that he could not have visitors for a while because he had violated the hospital rules –technically not a lie- and every day around dinnertime he called her using the elf's phone. It was generally the highlight of his day. In those moments, when Caroline drove out the pressing urgency of his project with cheerful stories of her family and work at the shelter, Thomas wondered how sad a case he really was for not being able to act like a normal person.

_I'm really fucking cracked, ain't I? Fucking hell. Caroline has no idea what she's signing up for. I'm a disaster waiting to happen._

Eventually it took three weeks. Thomas knew exactly when the last brush stroke touched the canvas. He had been working frantically, when all of a sudden the maddening pressure eased and faded, letting go of its grip on his mind. It left him lost for a moment, blinking dazedly like a prisoner released from darkness into the light. For a while he just stood there in front of the canvas, paint drying on his brush as he slowly came to terms with what he had made. There was no euphoria, not even accomplishment at having finished. All he felt was relief.

Thomas didn't realize the craft room attendant had come up to him, until he heard her gasp. She stood right next to him, wide eyes fixed on the painting. There was an audible tremor in her voice when she spoke.

"It's… I-It's horrible."

The heartfelt words broke through his initial feeling of liberation, and when he saw silent tears dripping down the woman's cheeks, realization hit him hard. It really was horrible. It was horrible like no other thing he had ever made. Thomas clenched the brush he still held in his hand. Ever since he had come to the clinic, he had drawn to shock, disturb and unsettle. He had found an almost perverse satisfaction in the grimaces and involuntary shudders his work brought on. But now that he had made something truly terrible, something so dreadful it brought a grown woman to tears at the mere sight of it… There was only a devastating sense of loss.

_All I ever wanted was to make beautiful things._

He put down the brush and turned around, walking out of the craft room without a second glance at his finished work or the shaken attendant.

_All I ever wanted was to make beautiful things. But all I make is horrible._

* * *

 

"It's… I don't know how to explain it. You have to see it for yourself to understand." Dr Beardsley slowly shook her head. "That boy is more than a little talented, Mr Smith. But I think he needs more than a little psychotherapy as well."

Maglor had told Anita Beardsley that the painting was very important to Thomas, that it was his way of processing his grief and that prohibiting him from working on it would only undo all the progress they had made so far. That had been enough incentive for the blonde doctor to come up with an arrangement; he supposed she hadn't been too eager to return to the daily temper tantrums that had characterized Thomas' early days at the clinic. In any case, the arrangement had been made and he supposed it had worked as well as could be expected.

The Noldo didn't know what Thomas had been working on apart from that it was a painting, and he hadn't asked. This was a lesson he had learned through personal experience. Fëanor had always been unabashedly rude to people asking him about his unfinished projects, and he had never understood why… until he himself had first felt the frustration of people asking him to play or sing "what he had so far" when he was trying to compose a new piece. It had made him realize that whoever pestered his father about his works-in-progress should be happy that an uncouth answer was all the temperamental elf threw at their head.

He hadn't asked, so when he arrived at the clinic and Dr Beardsley urged him to go see the painting before he went to see Thomas, he didn't know what to expect. He even felt a slight trepidation at going to see the work without the boy's permission. Yet the doctor's words had made him curious, and when she stated it was finished he couldn't resist having a peek.

Nothing could have prepared him for it.

It seemed to be an abstract work at first, a mess of dark shades and strange shapes… but similar to how one's eyes adjust to darkness, more and more could be seen in the painting the longer one looked at it. And Maglor couldn't look away. It felt like falling in vast nothingness and having the air crushed out of his lungs at the same time, but he couldn't bring himself to avert his eyes. The oppressive darkness seemed to reach out of the canvas and envelop him, making the room disappear in a haze of bitter cold. A low, creaking sound reverberated through his being, and it mixed with desperate cries and howling wind as he was given a bird's eye view of frightening misery. His mind was rapidly pulled through a series of images, memories, scenes, so fast that he could not comprehend, only feel. Cold, fear, hunger, grief, pain… He wanted to scream but he couldn't bring forth a sound.

"Mr Smith. Mr Smith, are you all right?"

Dr Beardsley's voice called him back to the present, breaking him from the terrifying illusion. When he got himself together again, Maglor found that he was no longer staring at the painting, but sitting in a chair, breathing heavily. The doctor concernedly eyed him.

"Do you want to drink something? Water, coffee?"

"No, I… I'm all right."

"Are you sure? It happens to everyone who looks at it, but you had it particularly bad… I think you almost passed out there."

He absently shook his head.

"No, no, I'm fine. Perfectly fine."

He was not. He was deeply shaken. Whatever he had expected, having the Helcaraxë shoved in his face was not it. He was still trying to process it…

_More than a little talented indeed… Ai Valar…_

The blonde sent him a comprehending look.

"It's a horrifying thing, isn't it?"

She gazed at the offending canvas, now covered with a sheet.

"I knew paintings could elicit emotional responses, but I'd never heard of anything like this."

"I… Me neither."

Maglor had in fact heard of such a thing before. Immersive art, both visual and auditory, was not that unusual a thing among the high elves. It was a subtle, instinctive kind of magic that could not be forced or controlled, and to be capable of it was considered a mark of great mastery of one's skill. But for Thomas to have made such a piece, of one of the darkest episodes of elven history… It should not have been possible.

_There is 27 years of agony in that canvas… Thomas hasn't even lived that long._

Maglor buried his head in his hands, uncaring of the impression he made.

"You don't by any chance have something stronger than coffee?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE! I currently have university exams, and I've written this in my breaks. Next month my normal updating schedule (about once every two weeks) should be back again, but for now I am hopelessly drowning in work. The story will not be abandoned though, don't worry!
> 
> Also… I have fanart! The epic fish in fridge (my Chinese translator) and a couple other people have made gorgeous pictures, and you all nééd to check it out. There is lots of awesome Maglor art (among which a picture of Maglor in his 18th century costume), a super sweet drawing of Caranthir and little Hayley, and much more. The fanart collection is here on AO3:  
> 
> 
> <http://archiveofourown.org/works/1657574/chapters/3516386>
> 
> Now, on to the story.
> 
> There is more than the usual amount of Quenya in it, so here's a quick translation;
> 
> "Istanya ná ve istatya." means something along the lines of "my knowledge/feeling is as your knowledge/feeling." I translated it as "the feeling is mutual", but "I agree" is another possibility.
> 
> "Ve merityë…" means "As you wish..."
> 
> "Utúvienyes!" means "I have found it!", which is quite literally what "Eureka!" means in Greek.
> 
> 'Aní lehta, húna úvanimo! ANÍ LEHTA! Héca! Vá! VÁ!" is a whole string of exclamations, something along the lines of "Release me, accursed beasts of Morgoth! RELEASE ME! Fuck off! Don't! DON'T!"
> 
> No new ghost (there will be one soon though), but we have a romantic development with Thomas and Caroline! I hope it wasn't too cheesy or unrealistic… It's rather important for the further course of the story, so feedback is warmly welcomed.
> 
> There is a huge dose of angst in this chapter… I think the most important things that questions may arise about are the following:
> 
> \- Thomas' Violent Episode And How It Was Dealt With
> 
> Yes, Thomas was not really thinking straight. Imagine you are completely consumed by something, totally unaware of your surroundings… And then someone grabs your arm. I have been known to slap people in the face for less, really. Thomas' violence is unlike his previous temper tantrums; he never really attacked people, and if he broke stuff it was usually his own.
> 
> As for the being restrained, this is called five-point restraint, and it is really done to people who are violent in a hospital setting. It is not unrealistic, trust me. As soon as someone is physically tied down, chemical restraint in the form of tranquilizers is used. (I actually looked up the protocol for this; usually there would be at least four attendants needed to apply this kind of restraint, one for each limb, but I have the feeling they greatly underestimated the kind of resistance Thomas would put up…)
> 
> As for Thomas waking up and feeling miserable… That's entirely realistic. If you have ever woken up from anesthesia you know that it feels like crap and that you have the driest mouth ever; take it from me that waking up from (forced) sedation is pretty similar. (The difference with Maglor's kinder techniques of putting someone to sleep is poignant, don't you think?) 
> 
> If you think the orderlies being callous is a cliché… well, I'm afraid experience learns that it's a cliché for a reason. I've heard hospital personnel say stuff behind the backs of patients when they think they can't hear that is far worse than this.
> 
> Oh, and did someone notice Maglor using words of power on Thomas? His fathername Canafinwë doesn't mean "strong-voiced" or "commanding" for nothing xD
> 
> \- Thomas' Helcaraxë Painting
> 
> It's -in my idea- actually a figurative painting, depicting the Helcaraxë landscape and a trail of people crossing it. This is not clear at first sight though, and when you try to look closer, the painting draws you into a vortex of memories and sensations. It's as Maglor calls it, "immersive art". As he stated, making art like this is pretty much intuitive, so no special education would be needed to be capable of it. (However, given that this intuition usually grows with study and skill, it's still very unlikely that Thomas managed to just whip out a painting like that)
> 
> Depending on how responsive one is to it, the sensation is worse. To the average viewer it is a pretty awful feeling already, something they aren't able to really wrap their minds around… But to someone like Maglor, who actually knows what is depicted and has his own memories and guilt concerning it, it's like an extremely confronting nightmare…
> 
> And yes, for those who didn't know, the crossing of the Helcaraxë lasted for 27 years. And Elenwë gave Thomas far more of that than he realizes himself.
> 
> Feedback is SO nice and appreciated! And if you have questions, don't be afraid to ask!


	8. The Ghost In The (Copy) Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several events make Maglor and Thomas consider both their differences and similarities, and pose them for a fundamental question… What makes a true likeness?

Thomas stood by the window when he came in, face turned away from the door, hands sternly folded behind his back. The boy gave no outward sign of having heard him enter… yet from the moment Maglor set foot in the room, something in the air seemed to tense up like a coiled spring. Closing the door behind him, an almost claustrophobic sense of distress crept up on the elf… What should he say? What could he say? Was there anything altogether he could say that wouldn't make it all worse somehow?

_I would throw myself to the floor and plead forgiveness… but I know not what I would be pleading it for, nor whom my pleas would be addressed to._

The unexpected confrontation with the Grinding Ice had dealt him a heavy blow, digging deeply into wounds that time had only superficially healed. Maglor's mind was flooded with shame and regret, guilt and anger, and he couldn't tell what was old and what was new anymore. There was too much too comprehend, too many thoughts and feelings to deal with. Part of his being screamed, trashed, begged desperately for release from the internal torment… but as he stood there no words left his lips.

_There is nothing I can plead my case with._

In the whirling chaos of thought and emotion, it wasn't pride that kept him standing; it was paralysis. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, unable to look or move away from incoming danger…

_There can be no forgiveness for me._

With every passing second the situation felt more like a standoff, a wordless confrontation of sorts... and when Thomas eventually spoke, his words shattered a painfully oppressive silence.

"I take it you've seen it."

His voice was flat and emotionless, and Maglor was hesitant to answer.

"I… I have."

Another silence filled the room. Then, the boy turned around.

"You know… I always wanted to be an architect."

Seeing Maglor's apparent confusion, he smirked a little.

"My father was one. He was the one who gave me a love of drawing. Taught me the basics of perspective, bought me this huge box of fancy pencils for my birthday…" His smirk gained a hint of wistfulness. "I remember I would sit at one of those plastic kiddie desks in a corner of his office while he went about his business, and I would draw with my new pencils and pretend that all his visitors actually came to see me and that he was my assistant. I was about five, I think."

Thomas sounded calm but aloof, seemingly uncaring of the personal story he told… but there was an ice-cold urgency in his eyes, and Maglor had to fight himself not to look away from it.

"For my eighth birthday he gave me this coffee table book full of pretty pictures and quotes about architecture. How it's poetry, inhabited sculpture, frozen music, captured light, the essence of civilization..." A wry smile played on his lips. "I still think he actually bought it for himself. I had barely outgrown the kiddie desk at the time; I didn't know what half of the words meant and if I remember correctly I actually wanted a Lego racer." He shook his head. "But it still sparked something. I was eight and my biggest achievement was drawing a somewhat recognizable portrait of my teacher, but wanted to do that too. Sculpt people's lives with what I made. Freeze music. Capture light. Make infinity imaginable. You know."

He shrugged but his voice trembled, hairline cracks forming in its caustic indifference.

"I wanted to make beautiful things."

* * *

Thomas wondered what he should be feeling right now, because he didn't know. He was… empty. The madness of inspiration had occupied so much of his mind, and now that it was gone he struggled to fill the free space with thoughts of his own.

_Maybe I have actually gone and lost my mind, and this is why they call it that. Because it feels empty, like nothing is there anymore._

With the confusing blankness of his mind also came a strange sense of clarity. His own thoughts felt muted, but everything around him was more focused somehow, sharper and louder. He even heard Maglor enter, despite the elf being near inaudible as ever. Thomas vaguely wondered how he had never been able to do that before; the Noldo really wasn't all that inconspicuous. On the contrary even, his presence in the room was almost palpable…

_Too palpable. This situation couldn't be more explosive if awkwardness was an actual combustible substance._

He should probably say something, but there was nothing he particularly wanted to say. He knew Maglor had seen the painting. Hell, he wouldn't even be surprised if half the hospital and the cleaning lady had seen it by now. And what could he say about it? All he had had to say had gone into making the thing. He had nothing left.

His first plan had been to just stand there, say nothing, and wait for the Noldo to leave him to his confusion. Ignoring Maglor proved harder than he had expected though, mostly because the elf refused to take the hint and his own patience was rather limited. While he stood there waiting in vain for the elf to retreat, his thoughts wandered… and the words of the craft room attendant came to mind again.

_Horrible. She called it horrible._

And as the woman's trembling voice echoed through his head, Thomas suddenly wanted Maglor to understand. All the empty, blank space in his mind was overrun with a deep desire for at least someone to understand it, to understand what he had made. To not call it horrible, even though it was. He turned and met the elf's shocked gaze, and from that moment the words just fell from his lips, fuelled by this sudden need. The old memories felt distant, unreal almost… but the sentiment they held was still the same.

_Is it so wrong to want to make beautiful things? I mean; everybody wants it. Our society is all about having and making beauty. Even parents of a cute baby glow with pride as if they've personally sculpted it down to its oh-so-adorable tiny fingernails. To produce something beautiful is a marker of worth and success. Why shouldn't I want it?_

Thomas observed Maglor as he spoke. The elf seemed to barely keep himself standing; with every word he looked sicker, white as a sheet and shuddering slightly under his stare. Something about the Noldo was so deeply miserable that he hesitated, if only for a moment. Maglor was his only friend. He didn't know what in his story hurt the elf so, but either way it seemed… cruel, to put him through this any further.

_But of all people, he might be the only one to understand._

Thomas had never considered himself a cruel person, or even someone capable of cruelty… but then, in his mind "cruelty" had been a rather vague concept that brought to mind mistreated animals and fetishized torture. Now that he found himself faced with Maglor's badly masked despair, he realized how wrong he had been. Cruelty was simply the end that justified the means, the need next to which the suffering of others proved unimportant. Given the right circumstances, anyone could become cruel.

_Even I._

He held the elf's gaze, trying to find the right words.

"I wanted to make beautiful things, but then all this happened and I couldn't anymore. I couldn't, Maglor. My hands, my mind wouldn't draw, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't do anything unless I got it out first." His nails dug into his palms. "I couldn't stop feeling the cold. I couldn't… I couldn't even turn off the lights at night because I was fucking scared of the dark! Every time I closed my eyes I was there again, freezing, drowning, dying..."

As he remembered it, a sudden surge of anger spiked through him at the sight of the Noldo's shaken, thunderstruck expression.

"Go ahead! Tell me it's horrible! Because that's what it is, isn't it? That's what I made! Something horrible! Never mind what you did to make it so! Never mind who caused the horror I put on paper!"

The words left his mouth before he could stop it, and Thomas found he couldn't regret it. He had _wanted_ to say it. It had burned and clawed inside him, this anger at Maglor and his brothers, and it _helped_ to say it, it helped almost as much as it hurt. His voice broke, and to his embarrassment he felt tears burning behind his eyes.

_Fuck this. Fuck everybody. Why can't they just leave me alone?_

He turned around and hoped the elf would just leave. He didn't think any further yet; all he now wanted was some peace and quiet, and possibly the privacy to bawl his eyes out like a pre-schooler with a booboo. It had the looks of it though that Maglor wasn't leaving, and neither was his urge to cry…

_Wonderful. Farewell dignity, it was nice knowing you._

* * *

It would never not hurt. He knew this. It would never not hurt to hear yet another victim of his and his family's deeds spew those words at him. But if ages of guilt and regret had taught Maglor one thing, it was that anger was better spent than hidden. And so when Thomas screamed at him, the words were not as cutting as they could have been. Their edge was already dulled by acceptance, by familiarity of sorts. He was used to their pain. He was used to a lot, actually. The passage of time had a habit of doing that to people. By now he was even sort of used to seeing his father in Thomas, although he didn't think it would ever stop being disturbing. It was something he had started to anticipate, in a way. Yet when he witnessed the boy's outburst… it wasn't his father he saw. No matter how much Thomas looked like Fëanor, even felt like him in the heat of his sudden rage, below the anger in his words Maglor recognized something that hit far closer to home.

Many ages had passed since the days he had wandered the newly formed coastline of Middle Earth, half mad, underfed and wounded… but this was one thing the passage of time had not made easier on him. The long-buried memories were sharp like knives when they came to the forefront of his mind again, and in any other situation the pain of recollection would probably have crippled him. Now however, it told him exactly what he needed to do.

_If only someone had done that for me, back then._

Quietly, he spoke up to the trembling figure by the window.

"It's not horrible." His voice was soft, but surprisingly steady given the way he had felt just moments before. "The… the events that inspired you were horrible. I won't deny that, and you have every right to your anger. But what you made… what you made is a thing of beauty. I know it doesn't feel that way. I know it… it feels as if you have betrayed everything that you believed in, as if you were given tools of a beautiful craft and then used them to make something foul and twisted… but that's not true."

Maglor remembered how he had been in those days, how lost and confused… He had lived like an animal, barely managing to keep himself alive, until the memories that haunted him had been put to music. And then, when he had finally finished it…

_My greatest masterpiece, and I resented every single note._

He had been silent for years after finishing the Noldolantë, repulsed by the mere sound of his own voice.

"You probably don't believe me. But… it is true. What you made is beautiful. Only the most beautiful of crafts can truly capture the horrors of history."

Thomas turned again and bewilderedly looked at him.

"H-How…"

Maglor sent him a sad smile.

"I have lived for a long time, Thomas. With age often comes understanding."

_If only that were the only thing that came with it…_

The boy didn't say anything, but at the words the tiniest sparkle of hope lived up in his eyes. He shook his head, softly admitting,

"I still… I can't think, Maglor." A broken sigh escaped him. "My own thoughts confuse me. I… It's… I can't..."

"You need to sleep. You've asked a lot of your mind, it needs rest."

"But…"

"Trust me. Just lie down."

Thomas looked at him, a little exasperated.

"Why… why do you even care?"

_Because I know how you feel._

"Just trust me."

_And I hurt less when I care._

* * *

He understood. Kind words with a wisp of authority led him to his bed, and as he listlessly curled up on the crumpled sheets, Thomas knew in the depth of his confused being that Maglor understood. Hesitatingly, he eyed the elf.

"Does… Does it ever go away?"

The Noldo knowingly looked back at him.

"No. It doesn't. But it becomes easier over time. You… grow used to it."

Thomas wondered how many horrors of history Maglor had seen in his long years, and how many more still he would witness before the end of the world… He silently concluded that elves must really be made of sturdier stuff than humans.

_Or maybe I'm just a wussy. That's possible too._

He sighed and drew his knees to his chest, suddenly feeling sick for having lashed out at the elf.

"I'm sorry."

Maglor faintly shook his head.

"Just close your eyes, Thomas."

If words could be perceived as touches, Maglor's would have been like a soft pat on the head. Feeling oddly comforted, Thomas let his eyes fall shut. Sleep came swiftly after that, swallowing his befuddled mind in warm blackness…

….. ….. …..

They didn't talk about it afterwards. Just like the Helcaraxë remained hidden under a sheet in the back of the craft room, what had been said remained between them, hidden in the back of their minds. It didn't mean that nothing had changed though. Thomas couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the way Maglor treated him was… different. Their companionship, which had been uneasy at best and extremely awkward in its lesser moments, had somehow become more comfortable, as if a form of mutual understanding had been reached despite all the things they never discussed. He didn't know exactly how it had happened, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

_It's not as if I am in any way qualified to find out what's going on in that elf's pretty head anyway._

They had restarted their little ghost-hunting endeavour, and as he got back on the job of sending off faded human souls and reassuring superstitious owners of creaky floors, Thomas' mind slowly recovered from the blow that Elenwë had dealt it. Without consciously knowing it, Caroline helped a lot as well. She would regularly come by the hospital and pick him up to go do something together; walking her dogs in the park, going to the movies, taking a ride in her father's cabriolet, sharing a strawberry sundae... No matter how ordinary the outings were, Thomas cherished every second of them. He didn't care what they did or where they went... as long as he could be with her. He was helplessly entranced by Caroline, drawn to her warm, cheerful presence like a bug to a lamp. He didn't know if he was in love with her. All he knew was that whenever he was with her, he felt like he _belonged_. And for someone as lonely and deprived as him, that was nothing short of addictive.

An extra bonus of their trips was that he practiced his English, and gained a little confidence in his ability to make himself understood. The language was still uncomfortable on his tongue and he doubted he would ever truly master it, but practicing with Caroline did help. It helped so much even, that when a mail with a strange inquiry landed in the Smith & Ashworth inbox… Thomas didn't immediately throw it away.

…. …. … … …

_Dear Mr Smith and Mr Ashworth,_

_My name is Peter Cavendish, and I have what might be a rather unusual request for you. I namely do not have a ghost for you, but rather a class full of curious students._

_I am an English teacher at the Mary Brompton College in Cheltenham, and my class will soon have a theme week around spiritualism and paranormality. In the context of this theme week, I thought it would be nice for the students to meet an actual medium, so they might compare their ideas to the reality of working with the paranormal, and get answers to whatever questions they might have._

_Our budget unfortunately doesn't allow us to pay you the full fee mentioned on your website, so this is merely a wishful entreaty. In case you are interested nonetheless, please contact me as soon as possible._

_Thanks in advance,_

_Peter Cavendish_

…. …. …. ….

At first Maglor didn't know why Thomas had kept the mail; he would have thought that holding a speech about ghosts before a class of high school students would be the last thing the boy would want to do… When he reread Peter Cavendish' letter though, an uncomfortable feeling crept up on him.

_This…_

He didn't understand how or why, as the mail made no mention of any actual paranormal activity going on in the school… but with every time his eyes flew over the lines of text his conviction grew.

_This is another one of them._

For a moment, Maglor struggled. He keenly remembered Thomas after the encounter with Elenwë, cold and exhausted against white sheets… He had looked so small and breakable then, so painfully _fragile_ ; a child still, not even a man by the standards of his own people. He remembered the madness in his eyes when he lay tied to the bed, the helpless anger and frustration as he fought to put the memories in his work… Truly, what right did he have to ask this of him? To put him through such a thing again? He warily eyed the boy, finger hovering over the delete button.

"Do you want to do this?"

Thomas shrugged.

"Don't know. Just wondered what you thought."

Alongside the images of Thomas, there were his brothers. Strong, damaged Maedhros, who had always remained Maitimo to him, beautiful beyond scars and disfigurement… The Ambarussa with their shared soul, who had belonged nowhere if not together… Proud, cunning Curufin, who until Nargothrond had believed that there was nothing he couldn't fix or repair… Maglor's face was a mask of levity when he spoke.

"If you feel like doing it, why not? It might be interesting…"

The words were bitter on his tongue. He had spent ages doing penance, trying to better himself, trying to make up for his past… but in the end, what for? Nothing had changed. He still couldn't choose what was right over his own needs.

_Maybe this is why we are truly doomed._

What was the life of one young mortal boy to the Valar? What was one mortal to the undying fëar of the Firstborn, to his family? Maglor didn't look at Thomas when he sent an affirmative answer to Mr Cavendish… but even so he felt the weight of his eyes on him. No amount of justification would ever make a wrong into a right.

_Our nature is in the choices we make. Maybe doom is no more than we deserve._

* * *

Maglor was acting weird again. But then again, when wasn't he? Thomas had long given up trying to make sense of the elf's unpredictable mood-swings. If there was a system ruling the Noldo's broodiness, he doubted his human brain could grasp its workings.

_Maglor can fuel a specialization for psychology majors all by himself. Maglorology, a.k.a. the science of interpreting a verbally constipated Noldo's massive range of stony facial expressions. I'm sure it would be a hit._

Never mind that the elf's latest shift in behaviour was at least to be called suspicious. Ever since they had agreed to be the speakers for Mr Cavendish' theme week, Thomas had caught Maglor doing a number of strange things, including but not limited to pacing past his room at least five times on average before entering, persistently looking in another direction when addressing him, and staring unblinkingly at him with a look of tragic foreboding whenever the elf thought he wasn't paying attention. Now Maglor was never the subtlest of people, but this time his unease was so obvious that Thomas thought he might be doing it on purpose.

_It's like he wants me to question him. If this is him honestly trying to be sneaky, I bet his family never put him in charge of surprise parties. The average toddler is less conspicuous than this._

"You think one of your brothers is haunting the Mary Whatever College, don't you?"

They were already on the road to Cheltenham when Thomas finally popped the question, and Maglor startled so badly he almost drove them into a ditch.

"Y-You knew?"

Thomas was not impressed.

"Yes, I know. And please don't cause an accident, I've quite had my fill of those." He frowned at the elf. "I know because you've been acting like a cat with a hairball in its throat around me ever since we got that email, figuring out why was not exactly difficult. Why didn't you just tell me? I thought we had agreed to be straight with each other about this?"

Maglor tersely answered,

"I… I don't know. I guess I didn't want to stress you out."

_Yeah right._

"Keeping vital information from me doesn't reduce stress, it's just generally counterproductive. And seriously, it's not as if I wouldn't have put the pieces together when we got there and that class happened to include a dead elf."

The elf pursed his lips.

"I'm… I'm sorry."

Thomas shrugged. If he had learned anything in his months with Maglor, it was that he had to choose his battles wisely. The Noldo was older than human civilization; if he hadn't mastered the art of plainly saying what bothered him by now, it wasn't likely to happen any time soon. Maglor's convoluted ways were annoying, but getting angry over them wouldn't make much of a difference. He sent the elf a longsuffering look.

"It's ok. Just… I'm trying my best here. A little faith in me would be nice."

_A little less faith in your ability to discreetly keep a secret might help as well._

Maglor softly shook his head.

"I do have faith in you, Thomas. I just… worry."

"Don't. They wouldn't have set me up for this if I couldn't do it, right? It'll be okay."

In all honesty, Thomas didn't know if it would be okay. Maglor must have had a reason to act so strange about this particular ghost, and the only thing he could think of was that the elf had had a very bad presentiment about it. And given his experience with elven ghosts so far… that didn't promise much good.

_Ah well. Que sera sera. It's not like worrying will help._

…. …. …. ….

As he entered the Mary Brompton College, Thomas got an unnerving sense of déjà-vu. From the schoolyard's uneven stretch of grey tiles to the scrawny vegetation and the sombre mid-century style buildings, everything was so alike his own old high school that he half expected to run into former teachers and classmates...

_Depressing cookie cutter architecture. If it's an official requirement for state-funded colleges, I won't even be surprised._

The uneasiness he had felt at entering only worsened at the school's secretariat, where he discovered the awkwardness of being addressed, non-ironically, as "sir" by people about three times his age. He had sort of anticipated teachers mistaking him for a student and berating him for loitering when he should be in class… but instead every passing adult greeted him politely, as if he was just another colleague of theirs. It was rather surreal, and while Maglor took his time asking the secretariat's clerk for directions, Thomas began to feel more and more as if he was missing something. Did he look far older than 18 somehow? Was this school very lenient towards students hanging around in a staff area? Had he somehow acquired a disguise?

_I need to stop thinking about this before I reach the part where it's all a conspiracy._

Taking a deep breath, he very purposefully put his thoughts to more serious matters, like the ghost that still had to make itself known. However… even so he couldn't help but wonder how the students would react to him, if this was how adults treated him…

…. …. …. ….

With the eye on paranormal activity, the class of Mr Cavendish was rather anticlimactic. No students with a bench mate in period costume, no sword-bearing TA's, no mysteriously dropping or rising temperature… Thomas was almost disappointed. Almost. They still had to hold the talk though, andlooking over the students' expectant, sceptic, and bored faces, he felt that that would be more than enough of a challenge in itself…

_What the fuck was I thinking when I agreed to do this? Was I high on something?_

The story he and Maglor had settled on was simple enough: they would explain that part of a deceased person –their energy, their soul if you wanted to call it that- could stay behind and trouble the living, and that mediums could perceive this remnant and make it pass on. He would then tell about how he had lived through a near-death experience and could sense spirits ever since, possibly recount some harmless anecdotes, and lastly end the talk with a short Q&A. Simple enough… if he managed to do all that in intelligible English.

_Fuck. My. Life._

There were only a few options to get out of holding the discourse, and none of those would let him get away with both his pride and dignity intact. Thomas quickly weighed his options, and then scraped his throat.

"Hello class, my name is Thomas Ashworth, and I am a medium. Your teacher invited me and my companion Maka Smith to give you a talk on what our job is about, what it is that we do and why, for your theme week. Answering questions is after the talk."

He might go down as the worst, most thickly accented and grammatically flawed public speaker in the history of the British school system… But hell, something worse would have to happen before he'd go down as a coward.

* * *

Seeing Thomas next to the other students was… confronting. The boy seemed older than his age most of the time, but now that he stood next to his peers the difference was even more poignant. No one with eyes in his head would give him only 18 years old. Maglor observed it, the knot in his stomach tightening painfully. It didn't matter that the boy's face was young and his body slender… there was something in the way he held himself, something in his gaze that betrayed an age far greater than that on his ID.

Thomas started the introduction to his speech with grim determination, and Maglor wasn't sure if he had to be proud of his courage, or troubled by the way the boy's approach reminded him of how his father had taught his classes in Aman.

_Unwilling to teach those lesser than him… but equally unwilling to give up and admit defeat. Even in what he disliked he sought to excel._

As was more and more often the case where Thomas was concerned, Maglor didn't really know how to feel about it all. He had prepared himself for another confrontation with a ghost of his past… but it seemed the worst that would happen this time was a confrontation with some sceptic teens thinking they had the world all figured out. Even with Thomas giving an eerie imitation of his father's teaching style, archaic accent and lethal glares included, it was far from as bad as he had pictured it. Maglor decided to just keep calm, play his part in this little presentation, and put less stock in his gut feeling next time. It would be okay. He closed his eyes for a moment.

_Then why do I feel as if things are about to go to hell any moment now?_

* * *

The questions Thomas received after the talk were a healthy mix of honest curiosity and slightly mocking disbelief, nothing he hadn't expected. When he asked around to see if anyone had ever experienced something paranormal, he got a couple standard answers, mostly the students recounting stories they'd heard from others. One answer drew his attention though...

"Our school has a ghost story too."

"Oh?"

The girl who had made the remark boldly grinned at him.

"They say that back in the sixties, a handyman died of electrocution while trying to repair a Xerox machine, and his spirit still haunts the school. No one ever sees him… but sometimes the photocopiers start working by themselves, and then they print copies of his face." She made wide eyes at him. "He still tries to repair things, but because he's a ghost now everything he tinkers with breaks. That's why we have power outages so often."

The other students were quick to ridicule the girl's dramatic narrative though...

"Don't tell me you really believe that Melissa, everybody knows that's just something they say to creep out first-graders."

"But there's proof! What about the copies, and the flickering lights?"

"Just pranksters and faulty circuitry, jeez. Are you eight or something?"

Thomas raised an eyebrow at Mr Cavendish, who laughed.

"Ah yes, the infamous ghost of the copy machine. I'm afraid my students might be right about that not being a very spiritual affair… That story was already being told in my early days as an intern here, and students have always found a good scapegoat for their pranks in it." He smiled. "I keep an open mind of course… but unless unscrewing light bulbs and making photocopies of one's behind are typical ghost behaviour, I don't think the culprit is to be found among the dead."

A quick look was exchanged with Maglor. They had come here because the elf had felt that this was another Fëanorian-haunted location, and though Thomas didn't immediately see one of the Noldo's brother's do the mentioned things, they had to consider it.

_Given that we've so far had a stray dog and a temperamental babysitter, a misguided handyman with a fascination for copiers wouldn't be that farfetched…_

"Aha. I… see..."

_Besides, I would pay good money to see Maglor's face if I could find him a photocopy of his dead brother's butt._

By that time they finished the Q&A, the hour was over and the bell rang for the break. The students hastened out of the classroom, and as Mr Cavendish politely invited them for a cup of coffee in the staffroom, it didn't seem like they would get the chance to look for the mysterious copier spirit. However, just when a colleague called for Mr Cavendish and the teacher had to excuse himself, a student approached them in the hallway.

"Mr Ashworth? Sir?""

He was never going to get used to that.

"Yes?"

The student, a brawny teen with a buzz cut that Thomas remembered as one of the sceptics of his talk, was nervously looking at him.

"Can… Can I talk to you for a second? It's… It's about the ghost."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. He didn't know what was stranger; the almost subservient way the boy had approached him, or the fact that he did so while having been rather adamant in his ridicule earlier. A little sarcastic he stated,

"The ghost in the copy machine? And here I think you do not believe in my ghost nonsense…"

The boy swallowed thickly.

"Look… I… It's…" He anxiously looked in the direction where Mr Cavendish had disappeared, and whispered. "The ghost is real. I've seen it."

Thomas caught Maglor's concerned look, and asked,

"Really now?"

The boy fumbled with something in his coat pocket, and handed them a creased, crumpled sheet of paper. Unfolding it, Thomas and Maglor got to see an extremely overexposed black and white photocopy of a face in profile.

_Oh fuck._

Photoshop could do a lot these days, and Thomas wouldn't put it past a couple bratty teenagers to try and trick the gullible medium with a fabricated ghost pic… But there was no doubt that this was a real picture. The strange luminescence of the photo made the ghost's features near unrecognizable… but the contours of a pointy ear were undeniable, and given what they had come here for, that said enough. Next to him, Maglor had paled.

"Where did you find this?"

The boy nervously bit his lip.

"The print room on the third floor. When I found it I thought it was a copy someone forgot, or a prank or so… but when I turned around, he stood there." He shook his head. "It was only a second, when I blinked he was gone, but man… I swear it was real." He hesitated. "And I saw him in the library a couple times too, after that. Always gone before I could get a good look, but I know it was him. He has long black hair, like that one creepy chick from The Ring." He shivered a little. "No one in school has hair like that."

Long black hair? That indeed sounded like one of their missing elves. But…

"Why tell this now?

The kid shrugged a little helplessly.

"This stuff is making me paranoid. If anyone here would know I saw shit, they'd have me locked up. That's why I say I don't believe in it. No matter how open-minded people say they are; if you say you actually see ghosts you're a wacko." He scowled. "And I'm not crazy. I just want to walk around here without freaking at every shadow." The look he sent them was nothing short of pleading. "You told us that mediums remove ghosts who bother the living… and I am really bothered. So could you please get rid of him?"

Well, that was what they were here for, no? Thomas had been annoyed by him during the talk, but couldn't help but feel a bit for the boy… after all, he knew better than anyone what it felt like to be bothered by the dead. He gave him a curt nod.

"We can try. Where to find this ghost?"

* * *

Maglor held the crumpled photo in his hands, fingers slowly tracing the contours of an ear, a jaw, a strand of thick dark hair… He didn't know how it was possible, how this mortal device had captured a shadow of his brother… but here it was.

_Oh Curufin…_

They were standing in the library, where the boy had claimed he had seen the ghost most often… but while Thomas looked around, Maglor's eyes barely strayed from the copy. While he tried to reconcile the barely recognizable picture with the memories of his brother, he suddenly remembered a phrase he had once heard back in Valinor.

_Prince Curufinwë the Crafty will make himself a new face as easily as a new circlet._

It had been borderline slanderous to say such a thing of a prince of the Noldor… but, Maglor acknowledged in retrospect, it had also been very true. It was a rather keen observation of his brother's character, actually. Curufinwë Atarinkë had been a man of masks, and very few could claim to have seen his true face up close.

His recollections of Curufin weren't all favourable… Maglor would even say that he had more unpleasant memories of Curufin than of any other of his brothers. Even in Aman, his fourth brother had never failed to impress and infuriate in equal measure. Brilliant but arrogant, diligent but selfish, ever popular but prone to scheming and backbiting… A lot could be said about him, but a simple character he had never been; not even the light of the Trees had been able to soften all his hard edges. It was all too easy to just remember him for that, for all the times they had fought, all the times he had had to clean up the mess Curvo left in the wake of his schemes, all the times they hadn't seen eye to eye and left each other in anger… It was far, far too easy to only recall betrayal and death. Maglor softly stroked the creased paper.

_You could be very ugly behind your pretty face, little brother. But I loved you nonetheless._

If Curufin had had one flaw, it was that he had tinkered and toyed with people as much as he had with cogs and gears, and that when those machinations had blown up in his face he had always been quick to pass the blame to someone else. It was a trait that had cost them all dearly, and Maglor knew that if their deeds had made it into the annals of the Noldor, history would not be kind on his brother.

_So I will be._

He sadly smiled. Curufin had loved his son to a fault. He had been a dutiful husband, a loyal brother, and a hardy friend once you truly won his friendship. History would not remember all that. But he would.

* * *

You would think that a tall elven ghost would be easy to spot in a moderately sized high school library. But no. Thomas was quite certain he had checked every aisle twice by now, but so far… no ghost.

_With my luck, he's off somewhere else blowing fuses and making creepy copies of his face._

He just wanted to call Maglor to give up the search and go check the print room on the third floor… when his eye fell on a copier, hidden in a badly lit corner of the library. The machine was surrounded by boxes and stacks of books that all cast strange shadows on the wall… but one of those shadows was suspiciously… person-shaped.

_Aha. Gotcha._

He carefully approached the device.

"Curufin? I know you are there."

The shadow moved a bit at the mention of the name, but gave no other sign of recognition. Thomas wasn't sure if he should find it amusing, or rather scary…

"I can see you, you know. Just come out."

He had thought he was prepared for whatever might come. He had thought that after the Helcaraxë, there was nothing he wouldn't be able to handle. But when Curufin stepped out of the shadows, Thomas realized that "I've had worse" didn't mean you were prepared for it, at all. The spirit was tall and toned of build, wearing a short-sleeved tunic and some kind of leather apron. His resemblance to the "creepy chick from The Ring" was thankfully limited to the messy jet-black hair that half obscured his features; when he wiped that from his face though, Thomas found that there were creepier things a spirit could resemble...

_Well, at least now I know what I'd look like with pointy ears and a truckload of Photoshop…_

He couldn't tell what it was, but something about the elf, maybe the curve of his nose, or the form of his face, made for an uncanny similarity with himself. Curufin's patrician features were far more handsome than anything he'd likely ever see in the mirror… but the resemblance was as undeniable as it was elusive.

_Maglor, if you knew about this I swear I am going to hit you._

The spirit seemed to be as stunned to see him as he was, although likely not for the same reason…

"You."

That intonation promised nothing good. Thomas nervously smiled at him, gesturing a little aimlessly.

"Here I am."

_Please don't kill me._

For a while they stood there, motionless, taking each other up. Then Curufin spoke again.

"I… Did not think I would see you again, father." His speech was halting and oddly measured, as if he tasted every word before it left his lips. He tilted his head to the side. "Why did you come?"

_Good question._

"I wanted to talk to you."

Those words stirred something in the elf's deep grey eyes.

"You wanted… to talk? Why?"

"Well… It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Curufin nodded, slowly. With careful, deliberate steps he left his hideout among the boxes of printer paper and walked into one of the aisles, hand trailing over the spines of the books. Thomas followed him, a little warily.

_Something tells me this is going to get real unpleasant real fast._

"I wanted to talk to you… often. I have so many questions… Like how does the silver disk make sound? Why do the lampstones here die… when you take them from their holders?" The elf's hand was now rhythmically tapping over the spines, following the pace of his step. "So many questions. Did you know the colour red means No? Not always though. It can be Yes too. Or Important. And sometimes it is a lot of sound. I tested that." His voice was eerily dispassionate, but Thomas noticed how the rhythm of his tapping became quicker and more nervous with every step. "I wanted to talk to you. There is so much I don't know. How does the copy maker work? How do you catch dreams in a box? Why did he leave me?" The once calm cadence of his fingers against the books was now a frantic drumming. "How do you go on, when everything is not enough?" His voice broke. "What do you do when there is nothing left but regret, and pain, and everything is red and it's dark and it hurts so much and, and…" His breath hitched, and Thomas barely managed to duck out of the way when he suddenly grabbed a book and threw it at him. "You probably know. You always knew everything. But I don't know. I DON'T KNOW!" One by one the books fell to Curufin's wrath as he threw them to the ground or flung them at Thomas. "You come to talk, TO TALK! Do you even know what you did? What I did? What we all did?!"

Thomas narrowly avoided another tome aimed for his head and winced.

_And look at that, I was right. Now where the fuck is Maglor?_

"Your shadow was darkest in death, and we all fell, fell down…" With a single push, Curufin sent an entire shelf clattering to the floor. His expression was a mixture of despair and insanity, a frightening grin plastered on his face. "Do you want to talk, father? Talk to me then! TALK TO ME!"

If he didn't do something soon, Curufin would probably demolish the entire library. Not to mention that break time or not, someone was sure to come check up on this ruckus if it went on like this, and then they would all be in trouble. This practical consideration broke Thomas from the daze of astonishment that Curufin's maniacal rage had put him in. Suddenly confident in what he needed to do, he raised his voice.

"CURUFINWË ATARINKË FËANORION! BEHAVE YOURSELF!"

If speaking convincingly had been like drawing with words, this was the verbal equivalent of angrily throwing a bucket of paint at someone. As the command echoed between the shelves, the rest of the school suddenly seemed eerily quiet, and for a moment Thomas as well as the elf stood paralyzed… Then the book Curufin had been ready to throw hit the floor with a dull thud, and the elf sank down on his knees between the heaps of mistreated literature, his form slumped like a broken doll. Thomas brought his hand to his mouth in surprise.

_Wow. There goes my attempt at not drawing attention. I'm pretty sure the whole school and half of Cheltenham heard that._

Not seeing Maglor anywhere and not knowing what else he could, do, he carefully approached the crumpled elven spirit.

"Curufin?"

No response.

"Curufin, look at me."

Again, nothing. A little worried now, Thomas dropped to his knees as well, reaching out and slowly tilting the elf's head up. He was met with a blank, absent look, unfocused eyes staring vacantly into the distance. It seemed that the spirit's awareness had left him together with his crazed anger…

_Wonderful. The librarian will be back from his break any moment, a whole section of this place is in tatters, my "assistant" is apparently missing, and now my "patient" is catatonic. Just wonderful. Someone up there must really love me._

Thomas silently cursed. This whole situation was just ridiculous. The idea of him being here as a speaker, while he probably wouldn't even pass a Basic English spelling test, was crazy enough in itself, and he couldn't for the life of him remember why it had ever seemed like a good idea. Add to that his unexplainable "adult disguise" –oh that sounded so wrong in his head- and a copy machine loving, book throwing ghost with some serious psych issues… and it wouldn't surprise him if he was actually starring in some kind of celestial humour show and this entire divine mission thing was just an elaborate form of paranormal candid camera.

_Only it's not funny at all._

* * *

Maglor didn't know what exactly was happening when as by magic books started to fall from the racks and fling themselves at Thomas, but it was definitely a sign to stay hidden for a little longer. The barrage of paperbacks was not exactly menacing, but he was well aware that he couldn't really help Thomas in this. If he tried, he would likely just stand in the way of whatever the boy was trying to do… Yet still. Maglor clutched the crumpled photocopy of Curufin a little tighter with every book that barely missed the boy.

_Oh Curvo. What in Arda are you doing?_

When not only books but whole shelves started to come down he almost interfered… but before he could do anything Thomas took care of it himself, and most impressively at that. The one-phrase reprimand was like a verbal smack in the face, and even though it wasn't meant for him, Maglor was left momentarily stunned by the power in it. When he recovered, the onslaught of books had stopped and Thomas sat on his knees amidst the destruction. What was going on he could only guess… but seeing the boy's rather fierce scowl, the Noldo didn't think their problems were over already…

* * *

Thomas was at an end. He had tried being nice, he had tried sounding strict, he had even tried pleading the spirit to cut him some slack and not make this so hard on him… and the only thing that had resulted in was a lot of frustration. No matter what he tried, Curufin remained completely unresponsive. He obviously didn't want to talk. Or do anything else, for that matter. Thomas sent him an exasperated glare.

_Then what do you want? A Quenya manual for the copy machine?_

He did seem rather taken with copiers… Thomas guessed it was worth a try; it wasn't as if he had all that many options left. Turning to the elf once more he casually asked,

"Hey Curufin… Do you want to know how the copy machine works?"

He hadn't actually expected the Noldo to respond to that… but for some mysterious reason that simple phrase succeeded where all else had failed. Curufin slowly blinked at him, the blankness in his eyes giving way to bewildered disorientation.

_Frankly I don't know why I am even surprised. Convoluted elves._

Sighing, Thomas sat down before him.

"You're a right mess, aren't you?"

The spirit just blinked, somehow managing to look both desperate and hopeful at the same time. He looked so helpless, so completely and utterly lost, that no matter how well and truly fed up Thomas had been with him, he found it impossible not to feel for the elf.

_I'd have to be a real heartless bastard to ignore a look like that._

He sighed again and took Curufin's hands in his, gently entwining the long, callused fingers with his own. It was strange. There were a thousand things he should be freaking out about; his resemblance to this ghost, Maglor's mysterious disappearance, the mess they'd made, the limited time, and not to mention the possibility of getting arrested for vandalizing the library… but sitting there on his knees across Curufin, none of that passed his mind. He was surprisingly calm, actually. Meeting the elf's confused and anxious gaze, Thomas recalled his own words to Maglor, and repeated them out loud.

"It will all be okay."

It would be. He didn't know how or when, but somehow this whole mess would sort itself out, and it would be okay. Freaking out could be done later, now he had work to do.

_Let us hope they have a book on copy machines somewhere around here…_

He sent Curufin a slight smile.

"Come, we have research to do. Can you stand?"

…. …. …. ….

"Do you know anything about electricity? Ehm… I mean, the power that makes the lights work?"

At Thomas' question, Curufin tilted his head to the side in that oddly unhinged way, and ran his hand over the wall in what seemed like a caress.

"The power flows like water… here… and here… through here…" He absently smiled as his fingers traced what probably were the electrical wires in the wall. "It makes many turns… It comes from a source far away, like a river… it is never the same, never the same. It flows through the building like water through a waterwheel… And yet not… no…" Curufin made an ambiguous wavy gesture with his hand, frowning as if he didn't completely understand it himself. Thomas raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"That is… a remarkably astute observation."

Curufin beamed at him. Of all the spirits Thomas had ever dealt with, Maglor's fourth brother had the doubtful honour of being both the most intelligent and the most disjointed. Thomas wasn't sure how to put it, but in some way he was even more damaged than Celegorm had been. He seemed to possess an intuitive understanding of many things, from electricity to the library's classification system, but at the same time his grasp on sanity was tenuous at best. In the time it had taken Thomas to find some books on important inventions, the elf had already slipped through various stages of incoherence, going from completely disorganized to absurdly perceptive and back. It was rather… unsettling.

He tried not to let his discomfort show too much, and concentrated instead on finding a simple yet thorough way to explain the copy machine to someone who had never heard of electrons, photoconductive material, corona wires, and other assorted bits of technology that appeared to be vital for the functioning of the mysterious device, if the books were to be believed. He sighed.

_If I'm going to do it, I better do it right._

"It's quite simple, really. To function, the copy machine uses a very basic property of matter." He took his sketchpad from his bag and drew a couple diagrams. "You see Curufin, all substances consist of little particles." The elf curiously bent closer to the sketchpad. "No matter the material, these particles always have the same basic structure. It's a bit like how a sword always has the same basic components, no matter how big or ornate it is." Wherever the sword analogy came from he didn't know, but it seemed appropriate given his student. "In the case of these tiny particles, they consist of a positive core with a cloud of even smaller negative particles around it. Those negative bits are called _electrons_." Thomas winced at his own explanation. It had been a long time since his last physics class, and it all sounded rather bizarre in Quenya, to be honest. "If you add two equal numbers, one positive and one negative, you get zero. For particles, zero means that they are neutral, that the core and the electrons balance each other. All particles want to be neutral." Well… he wasn't entirely sure about the motivations of particles, but it would have to do for now. "When you add or take away electrons from a particle, it becomes what we call "charged", it is no longer neutral. Depending on whether it has too much or not enough electrons for its positive charge, it will give or attract electrons from other nearby particles. This can cause a moving of electrons in the material, a flow so to say, and that is the power you feel in the wall."

Curufin stared at him as if he had just unveiled the meaning of life.

_Damn. And I haven't even gotten to the part that actually is about the copy machine…_

…. …. …. ….

As soon as Thomas had removed himself from the wrecked bookshelves, Maglor had addressed the cleaning… that is, he had restored the shelf Curufin had damaged, quickly shoved all the books back into the racks at random, and then gone in search of the boy. He might have been overreacting a bit, but Thomas did have a bad track record for getting in trouble with spirits whenever Maglor turned his back on him, so he would have said his worry was justified. When he found the boy though, he couldn't immediately tell if what he saw counted as "trouble"…

"…photoconductivity, that means material that does not allow for the electrons to flow unless it is exposed to light."

"…"

"Yes, exactly! Now look, this thing here is called the _corona wire_ , it gives a negative charge to this side of the drum."

Thomas was rather excitedly explaining something in Quenya punctuated with bastardized English, gesturing and pointing at a variety of diagrams and drawings lying around on the desk. Maglor carefully listened from a distance…

"This bright lamp here shines on the item we want to copy; some of the light will be absorbed, some of it will be reflected onto the drum, here. Now remember photoconductivity; where the light shines, the negative charge disappears, because the electrons can flow."

"…"

"No, no…. that's later. There is no real image yet, only a shadow of the original. It requires a third process to make the copy. That's what happens here."

Apparently Thomas was explaining the process of xerography to Curufin… Maglor couldn't help but smile a bit at that, despite the situation. Leave it to his crafty little brother to make even his "exorcism" a learning experience… A soft sigh escaped him.

_You would have loved to be alive in this age, Curvo… But it's probably better for you that you're not._

Maglor was so used to not actually perceiving the ghosts that he almost didn't realize what he was seeing when an odd distortion of his vision made him blink repeatedly. It felt as if his eyes slipped a little out of focus whenever he pointed them at Thomas… When he finally understood what he was looking at, the faint feeling of seeing double had already disappeared, giving him no more than a flash of Thomas' conversation partner. The hazy apparition had been enough to awaken the elf's worry once more though; he doubted that the boy knew how devious his brother could be.

_Be careful, Thomas. Please be careful…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AUTHOR'S APOLOGIES)
> 
> First of all… I AM SO, SO SORRY! This has taken even longer than the previous chapter, and that while I promised I would update more often after my exams! I am a horrible person and probably deserve to be lashed for my latency. *cries in a corner* I have a plethora of excuses, ranging from my own holiday, my spending time at my boyfriend's, and the fact that my Curufin muse was an asshole (what else did I expect?) but in the end I can only beg you for forgiveness.
> 
> One little point of positivity here: this chapter is by far the longest I have ever written, being 15 pages while my average for this story is about 10. 
> 
> Now, enough with the apologies, on to my story explanations.
> 
> \- Sudden backstory!
> 
> Multiple readers have been asking me for more info about Thomas' past, and I thought the aftermath of the painting incident would make for a good moment to give a little backstory. What have we learned? Mostly that the wife- and parentless Mr Ashworth Senior had no idea what you generally buy as gifts for small children… but also that Thomas did have a dream and a plan for his life prior to the car accident. He may seem rather unaffected by the memories here, but I personally think this is the start of his postponed mourning process…
> 
> \- Mentioning of the Noldolantë!
> 
> Canonically the Noldolantë tells about the rebellion against the Valar and the kinslaying in Alqualondë… but it is my (and a lot of other people's) fanon that Maglor later extended the lament to include the other kinslayings and battles that led to the ruin of their people. Of all the traumatic events in Maglor's life, I think wrenching that lament from his soul must have been one of the worst; being all alone, wounded and broken, reliving the memories time after time until he found music for them… Recognizing the "symptoms" of such a thing in Thomas helps him face the memories without getting lost in them, possibly for the first time…
> 
> \- Thomas being a speaker? Whut?
> 
> Yeah. I know. The Valar are mean bastards. If Thomas was high on something, it was probably Caroline-induced self-confidence. He does repeatedly regret the unfortunate decision… But what has to be done, must be done. If you think it felt forced or unfitting to the storyline, I apologize.
> 
> \- The library, the break times, the fact no one hears them, etc...
> 
> I have been enrolled in two different high schools that both had a library, (one modest, one spectacular) and my mother is a librarian by profession, so take it from me that library rules differ a lot from place to place, as do break times. As for no one hearing them… divine coincidence? (please don't kill me…)
> 
> \- Curufin's behavior
> 
> Yeah, our dear Fëanorians just keep getting worse and worse. *cruel grin* Curufin, whose brilliant mind was once his proudest attribute, is now more than a little cracked… In fact, he is constantly fighting against the abyss of insanity by carefully measuring his movements and focusing his thoughts on making sense of the world around him. The shock of seeing Thomas, whom he perceived as Fëanor, sent him spiraling down for a moment… The whole copy machine thing is simply something he latched on to, something "rational" to focus on when thinking about anything else hurt too much.  
> In a part of his being he still is the brilliant elf he once was, and this is where his intuitive comprehension comes from. However, I think he did enough experiments too… (I am certain he let the fire alarm go off at least once) Also, if you want to interpret his "vague wavy gesture" as a visualization of AC current, be my guest xD
> 
> \- Xerography Explanation!
> 
> It's been a while for me since I last had physics (given that I do Art History), so I am sorry for the miserable explanation of electrical phenomena. Before you shoot me for butchering physics though, do take into account that the last physics class has been a while for Thomas as well, and that he is trying to explain all this to Curufin from memory and by sort-of translating pieces of English library books to Quenya. That's not simple, so I'd say he is doing a pretty good job.
> 
> As for the actual xerography (the process of photocopying, just so you know), the explanation is not entirely necessary to understand the story. (If you understand it you might catch on to something, but it's super vague so I doubt anyone will see it.) If you're interested nonetheless, the Wikipedia article on Photocopiers is really great, and I am much indebted to it for this chapter.
> 
> Please, please tell me you haven't all given up on me! I want to hear what you think! Reviews are love! Questions, comments, opinions, guesses as to what will happen next… everything is welcome! Also, if you have any complaints, do voice them; if you do so politely, I will certainly take them into account.


	9. Resemblance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to lose the fight to win the war.

While he explained the copy machine to Curufin, a disquieting realization had crept on Thomas. The elf reminded him… of himself. It wasn't the physical similarity. Physical similarity was in essence trivial; you could look like someone and still not be alike in the least, proof in case being all the celebrity imitators who made a living of this. No, the truly unsettling thing was not so much looking alike, as _being_ alike. And he and Curufin were alike, far more than he was comfortable with. It was a bizarre sense of kinship that just crept up on him when he looked at the elf. Thomas shook his head to himself, trying to push the discomfort away.

_We both seem to like throwing stuff at people when we're pissed… Maybe that's it._

Whatever it was, he didn't really want to think it through. This whole situation was weird enough without him starting to philosophize about it.  
Meanwhile, Curufin had become engrossed in one of the drawings Thomas had made to illustrate his discourse. Thick black hair fell in front of his face as his slender fingers traced the sketch, stroking the paper with careful reverence. His lips moved soundlessly, forming the unfamiliar English words he had learned like a mantra, again and again, each time seemingly less deliberate. Thomas sighed when he noticed it.

"Curufin."

When the spirit didn't respond, he put a bit more authority in his voice.

"Curufinwë, look at me."

That drew a reaction. Curufin lifted his head, and Thomas could almost see the madness drain from his gaze, leaving a look of anxious confusion. He suddenly felt intense pity for the spirit.

_Caranthir told him it would be over soon… but it wasn't, was it?_

On impulse he reached out and wiped the hair from Curufin's eyes, frowning slightly.

"Tie your hair back, you can't work with that mess in your face."

The words were out before he could stop them, but they appeared to have been the right ones. Anxiety turned to quiet gratitude in the elf's eyes, and he received a shaky smile.

"Yes father. I'm sorry."

To his surprise, Curufin immediately started braiding his hair behind his ears with swift, well-practiced gestures, successfully keeping the almost waist-length tresses out of his face without needing so much as a hair tie. Observing the process with raised eyebrows, Thomas had to admit it was rather impressive.

_One thing is certain; this one has a better notion of hair care than his brother._

When the elf finished with his braids, Thomas got up and pointed at the copier in the corner.

"Time for a demonstration. Let's see how much you've understood."

He had really no idea if he was making progress on Curufin's "exorcism"… but if distracting the elf kept him from slipping back into insanity, he would do just that.

...

As Thomas made Curufin recount what he knew about the copying process, he found that the elf had retained surprisingly much of the explanation. His words were hesitant, sometimes breaking up and faltering into vague, nondescript gestures… but for someone who had virtually no prior knowledge of modern technology, his understanding was simply incredible. And given his mental deterioration… Thomas figured that Curufin must have been a brilliant person in life. It made the spirit's current state all the more painful…  
Their actual "demonstration" had consisted of simply making a copy of their hands, just for the sake of it, and after that conversation had awkwardly fallen silent. Both their hands still lay on the copier's glass, and Thomas noted the elf was curiously eyeing them.

_He probably doesn't recall his father's hands being smaller than his own…_

Next to the elf's slender, powerful hands, Thomas' own looked oddly undersized, and definitely a lot grubbier than those of his companion. They were a teenager's hands, young and untrained, with graphite stains and writer's callus to betray his drawing habit. The contrast was stark, and Thomas couldn't help but find it uncomfortable. He had never had any particular sentiment about his hands before (apart perhaps from a slight relief that he still had them when he woke up from his coma) but seeing them side by side with Curufin's, they just seemed wrong somehow, like a glaring error of proportion in an otherwise perfect drawing. He frowned in annoyance at his own thoughts.

_Right. Obviously, this is the ideal moment to start feeling self-conscious about my hands, of all things. Fuck you too, brain. Fuck you too._

Looking at Curufin, he noted that the spirit's clear-eyed curiosity had once again been replaced by a glazed, forlorn expression. He suppressed a groan.

"Curufinwë?"

This time, he didn't have to call twice.

"Atarinkë." The spirit's voice was flat when he answered. "Mother named me Atarinkë. And she was right. You know? She was right. Always like you, never enough. She knew." He slowly shook his head, not looking at Thomas. "She knew, and I did not. Never you, never ever, never ever enough. You gave me a name I would not live up to. And she named me for that… t-that shame." Curufin trembled, clenching his fists on the glass of the copier. "Always smaller, lesser… I wasn't… enough. I wasn't you. There were… I could not… not…" Shaking with frustration as the words escaped his grasp, his face twisted into a grimace of pain. He gritted his teeth and pinched his eyes shut, almost choking on the phrases he couldn't seem to string together. Thomas bit his lip, wavering between apprehension and sympathy. Self-preservation-wise he should probably be making a run for it before the ghost lashed out at him… but even as the thought occurred to him, he rejected it immediately. He couldn't run away, not from this.

_I'm not even sure I want to._

Thomas carefully placed a hand on the elf's clenched fist.

"You weren't me, you were you. And that was always enough. Always." The words came out fiercer than he had expected. "Your worth as a person never depended on how well you could emulate another, let alone me. I did not exactly prove myself a good example."

A dry sob escaped the spirit, and before Thomas knew it, he was being pulled into a maelstrom of jumbled memories.

_… … … …_

_(Love was a sharp thing, harsh and cutting.)_

_"Of course I love your father. How could I not?"_

_She tiredly smiled as her hands ran through his hair, nimble fingers carefully untangling the knots and redoing his messy braids. The comforting touch whittled away at his resolve not to cry, and when he spoke again, his voice was a pitiful whimper._

_"T-Then why do you fight s-so much?"_

_His mother sighed, halting her braiding for a moment._

_"Because sometimes, we love each other too much." She shook her head. "When you grow older, you will understand."_

_(And then its edges grew dull, like a knife overused, and only silence remained.)_

_… …. … …_

_(Your shoes are too large for my feet, father.)_

_"You're so much like your father when he was your age." The mathematician smiled warmly at him. "He was never satisfied with the speed of my teaching either. I remember he had already figured out a way to solve this type of equations before I could even begin to explain them!" The ancient scholar shook his head, as to clear it of an old memory. Then he looked down at him again, and there was a hint of wistfulness in his gaze. "His process was very inventive… Do you want me to show you how he did it?"_

_(It had hurt, at first. A soft, cutting pang, every time they saw his father's hand in his work rather than his own, every time their words of praise were merely comparison. It had hurt in that immaterial, indefinable way that words can hurt what you are.)_

_(He was Curufinwë.)_

_… … … …_

_Holding his newborn son, he realized with something akin to panic that he would never create anything more wondrous than this tiny living being._

_(And as a little fist clenched around his fingers and curious grey eyes held his gaze, he realized he didn't mind.)_

_… … … …_

The last glimpse of recollection had only barely faded when something harshly broke up the stream of memories. The sudden blow impacted Thomas like a car smashing into a brick wall, crushing the air from his lungs as he was forcefully thrown from Curufin's thoughts. For a moment his head was filled with blinding headlights, breaking glass and wrenching metal, a recollection vivid enough to set his nerves alight in wild panic. Instinct took over. His conscious mind was still reeling, but something inside him already retaliated, a primal fight-or-flight response making him lash out at his opponent with all his might. A surge of raw power he hadn't known he possessed coursed through his being, and as he struck out he could feel the other recoil, the balance shifting in his advantage. It could have been intoxicating… but as the immediate sense of danger abated, Thomas regained his senses, and his bafflement at what had just happened broke through the trance-like state of mind. With a start he opened his eyes.

_What the actual fuck._

He was still in the library, and although he had felt like being simultaneously flung around and crushed to death, he still appeared to be in the same spot as before his encounter with...

_Oh shit.  
_

With a shock Thomas realized that the entity he had so harshly lashed out at must have been Curufin. He anxiously looked around for the elf… and had his fears confirmed when he located him. The spirit had pressed himself against the wall like a cornered animal, his nails digging into the wallpaper as if it was his last holdfast. His panic was almost tangible; the elf's eyes were wide with terror as he struggled to hold on to the remnants of his sanity. He shook and trembled, garbled words and broken whimpers falling from his lips in a desperate attempt to regain his mind.

"No… not… again… can't… Dark… No… no please… Sorry… Not this… red… red everywhere… sorry… no… father… no… not again… not again…"

Curufin's speech quickly lost all semblance of coherence, degenerating into anguished sobbing as his madness won ground. Watching the Noldo fall apart, Thomas felt sick.

_I did this. He was afraid and in pain and then I did this._

When he cautiously took a step towards him, the elf recoiled even more, frantically shaking his head.

"No… No… No… No…"

Thomas felt like the worst person in the world when he ignored the spirit's hysterical pleading and kept coming closer.

_I'm sorry. I have to do this. It's for your own good._

Every muscle in his body was taut and ready to run in case Curufin decided to follow his brother's example and physically attack him… but the elf didn't even try to fight. He seemed paralyzed in fear, only shivering and brokenly repeating his refusal when Thomas reached out to him.

_Or so I hope._

He was met with a feeble form of mental resistance when he touched the spirit, a last echo of the forceful defensive measure he had encountered earlier. Instinctively pushing past it, another deluge of memory was released…

… … … …

_(It was so red. He did not know a gem this shade of red. He had never thought to make one.)_

_There was no order given. But his father unsheathed his sword, and he knew._

Death we will deal him ere day's ending…

_It was remarkably easy… The thought passed through his mind as he ruthlessly cut down a young woman, silencing her frightened screams in a spray of blood. Easier than it should have been, maybe._

Woe unto the world's end…

_He felt dead fingers break under his boots as he took a step back, his sword already biting in another's flesh. Who was to judge the ease or difficulty of an act none had attempted before? A smile twisted his lips. Maybe they only wished it was harder._

To the everlasting darkness doom us…

_There was comfort in simple things, simple expectations. Copper tasted sweet that night, in the burning glare of torches._

If our deed faileth.

_Had it been harder, he would have done it still._

_(It wouldn't come off. He only stained all he touched.)_

… … … …

_(I followed you.)_

_The nauseating scent of scorched flesh permeated the air like a fog, so thick he could almost taste it._

_"Swear…"_

_Charred whip marks covered near all of Fëanor's body; fabric and metal had molten into his skin in the heat of the Balrog's fire, leaving fell burns that were even now still searing deeper into his flesh. His hands were a mangled mess of crushed bones and blackened skin, twitching like a dying animal as he forced himself to speak._

_"Swear… again…"_

_There was madness in their father's gaze, so bright it was painful. The blazing fire in his eyes was so intense he could barely stand to look at it._

_(Please… Father…)_

_They all swore. He gagged on the words, their sickening, acrid sweetness lingering on his tongue.  
(Don't leave me.)_

_When the last words left their lips, a violent spasm wracked Fëanor's body, snapping bones with its strength. His wounds broke open into white-hot crackles that spread over his burned form like a taint, quickly growing to blinding brightness._

_(Father!)_

_He was destroyed, consumed in an unbearable blaze of light. There was nothing left but ashes._

_(It is dark now. So dark. I don't know where to go.)_

_… … … …_

Before the memory could fade into the next, a raw, tormented scream made it shatter around him. The wordless, agonizing cry echoed through his being, sending cold shivers down his spine. Thomas' head spun and he had to fight back the bile rising in his throat as the sound reverberated in his bones. It was near unbearable, like nails on chalkboard… Even after it died away it took a while before he could bring himself to move. He could still feel the scorching heat on his skin, the warm taste of copper in his mouth, the burning stench in his nostrils… the recollection was so vivid that every one of his senses seemed to remember it separately.

_Get a fucking grip, Thomas._

He pinched his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering sensations. It was easier said than done. Everything around him felt warped somehow, as if the subsequent dives in Curufin' memories had thinned the boundary between reality and recollection. He had no idea how much time had passed, and even though he rationally knew that he was still in the library, it seemed that his mind had trouble accepting that fact…

_You have a job to do. Get a grip. Now._

He had to get himself together. The thought was stronger than the disorientation, and it only grew stronger when Thomas realized the spirit's condition. Curufin had curled up on the floor, shivering as with a fever. All the fight appeared to have gone out of him… it was almost as if he had given up and just lay down to die.

_Speaking of futile endeavours…_

It would have been funny if it hadn't been so godforsaken awful. Thomas couldn't find it in him to be honestly callous. The strange sense of kinship he had felt before was back, and looking at the pitiful spirit, all he really wanted to do was comfort him. He crouched down and carefully reached out to him, making sure not to put any mental force in the touch. He softly stroked Curufin's mussed hair.

"Sssh… It's almost over."

A sob escaped the elf.

"Please… n-no more…"

The small, broken voice made Thomas' heart clench.

"I'm sorry…" He could feel the elf shudder under his hand. "It hurts more if you fight it. You have to let go."

"Father…"

"Sssh… Just let go."

This time, there was no resistance.

… … … …

_(It was a game, this measured exchange of thinly veiled threats and vicious politeness, a knife game with words sharp like steel. It was a game he knew how to play.)_

_"Why do you do this?"_

_The question had been off-handed, but there was no pretence in the words. Finrod's eyes were bright and sincere as they met his, and for a moment Curufin found himself disarmed by that look, unmasked by its naked honesty. He hesitated._

_(It was almost offensive, how fair their cousin was, how kind and caring. It chafed somehow, grated on his being like a jewellery file on a roughness in metal.)_

_"Do what, cousin?"_

_He arrogantly raised his eyebrows, and the hopeful brightness in Finrod's eyes dimmed, until only something sad and disappointed remained. For a while they said nothing._

_(So warm and golden… As if all the wretchedness of this world couldn't tarnish him. How could he be like that? How dared he?!)_

_As the silence stretched on, the king sighed._

_"It doesn't have to be this way."_

_Curufin smirked._

_"Maybe I like it this way."_

_(He wanted to dig his nails deep into that soft, malleable gold.)_

_There was a burning stab of satisfaction when sadness turned to hurt in those cerulean eyes._

_(He wanted to cut out and shred this treacherous part of him that would break for something warm and soft and golden.)_

_(It was a losing game.)  
_

… … … …

_(He hadn't watched as glowing embers turned to roaring flames. He hadn't seen the steel in those eyes harden.)_

_"Why haven't you packed yet? Hurry up!"_

_Tyelpë barely even flinched at his impatience. He slowly turned from his workbench, languidly wiping his hands on his apron._

_"I'm not going."_

_His voice was flat, but it had a treacherous edge of determination. Curufin scoffed._

_"Of course you are going. We are being evicted. Take only what is necessary."_

_"No." The younger elf looked straight at him. "You are being evicted. You and Uncle. There was no talk of me."_

_The blatant disobedience sent a surge of anger through his system. He bitterly laughed._

_"Of course there was talk of you. Don't make me question your intelligence, Tyelpë. Have you forgotten who you are? If you stay behind, you will be their prisoner."_

_"I am rather their prisoner than your pawn."_

_The words were sharp and unexpected, like a hidden dagger suddenly plunged between his ribs. For a couple moments, he was speechless._

_"What?"_

_"I refuse to play your games anymore. I'm not going with you. And if that means I'll be held hostage here, so be it."_

_"Don't speak nonsense. You are my son!"_

_"And what does that mean, to one who burned his youngest brother alive, left his eldest brother to rot in the hands of the enemy, and betrayed the cousin who took him in for the sake of some sick power game? You don't care about anyone, least of all your family. I'm nothing but a moderately useful game piece to you." Tyelpë's speech was biting. "I will have no more part in this."_

_"Don't speak of what you know nothing about!"_

_"Nothing? I know enough. If you are doomed, it is only by your own choices." The younger elf's gaze burned. "I won't let you make my choices for me anymore. I renounce you, Curufinwë Atarinkë. I renounce you, and your family, and the name you gave me. I am no longer your son. You have no more claim to me."_

_(It hurt so much he couldn't even scream. So he smiled.)_

… … … …

_It was so dark. He couldn't breathe. He desperately fought for air and only tasted blood, his lungs burning with every strained gasp. Fear clenched his body like a crushing fist._

_(Father…)_

_The blackness hungrily closed in on him, teeth gnashing. He was terrified._

_(Tyelpë…)_

_A hand tremblingly stroked his head._

_"Don't be… d-don't be scared. It w-will be over soon."_

_He wasn't alone. He closed his eyes and willed himself to focus on that, on the gentle touch, the warmth of the presence next to him. He wasn't alone. It was the last thing he felt, before his mind was drowned in darkness._

… … … …

It was over. He did it. The memories faded naturally this time, and even though remnants of Curufin's fear and pain still resonated in his mind, Thomas felt calm when he opened his eyes. It was finally over. He almost couldn't believe it.

_This was… probably the hardest thing I ever did. Wow._

He knew that he would probably get some sort of backlash from the Noldo's bloody memories and the effort it had cost to retrieve them… but right now, all he felt was relief. The elf had somehow curled around him and nestled his head in his lap. Looking down at him, Thomas smirked lightly.

"You were never an easy one to deal with, were you?"

Curufin dazedly blinked at him, too tired and out of it to even give a response. Thomas' shook his head to himself. His smirk turned to a small smile as he wiped a couple stray hairs from the spirit's face.

"Anyway, it's all right now. It's over." His fingers lingered on the elf's cheek for a moment, a hesitant caress. "Go to sleep. You look dead tired."

_I just can't help it, can I?_

Curufin weakly shifted a bit closer, and then obediently shut his eyes. The tension drained from his body, and for a moment Thomas could see what the elf must have looked like in better days, relaxed and smiling. Then his form faded, leaving nothing behind.

* * *

The atmosphere in the library had quickly become… unpleasant, after Thomas had gotten up to show Curufin the copy machine from close-by. Maglor had observed everything from a distance, his worry growing along with the increasingly bad aura that had spread through the room. There had been power in the air, fluctuating around Thomas… and though whether the boy was the source of the power or its victim had been unclear, neither possibility had promised much good. When the energy in the room had become notably hostile, Maglor had deeply cursed his own powerlessness. He hadn't been able to see what exactly was going on, but the harrowing sensation he had gotten from just looking at the scene had been enough to make him fear for the boy.

Right now, Maglor wasn't sure what to make of the situation. He had dreaded the outcome of this ghost hunt from the moment it became clear which one of his brothers they were dealing with... but none of the scenarios he had imagined could have prepared him for this. Despite the mist-like distortion he had come to associate with seeing ghosts, he could see his brother now, limbs sprawled, head resting on Thomas' lap. It was a scene so surreal that only the fear of it disappearing kept him from blinking in disbelief. There was something defeated about the way Curufin lay there, something helpless and deeply vulnerable. Maglor could safely say he had never seen his brother like that, not even in death.

_For him to look like this, so calm in surrender…_

Thomas must have bested Curufin more thoroughly than even the ones who killed him. And yet, there was no mistaking the affection in the boy's smile, or the gentle way he threaded his fingers through the spirit's tresses. Whatever had transpired, there was no enmity between them. On the contrary even. Maglor didn't know if he should be impressed or unsettled.

_Does he even realize how frighteningly powerful he is?_

When Curufin's spirit faded, Thomas remained on the floor for a couple moments. Then he got up, dusted off his pants, and curiously looked around, almost as if to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. At last he softly called out to him.

"Maglor?"

"I'm here."

When he came out from behind a strategically placed bookshelf, the boy smirked.

"So that's where you were."

"I didn't want to disturb you."

"Probably for the better."

Maglor startled when their eyes met. Thomas looked worn-out, but his gaze was unnervingly intense, with an almost feverish glint haunting the cold hardness that hadn't left him since Elenwë. The Noldo worriedly reached out to him, touching his shoulder.

"Are you… all right?"

Thomas shrugged dismissively, looking away.

"I'm tired, but relatively ok I guess. How long did I take?"

"About an hour and a half."

"And nobody heard us? Seriously?"

"Apparently. We have either had an improbable amount of luck, or the library wasn't supposed to be open today and the attendant who let us in was mistaken. In any case, we should probably head back now. If it was luck, I don't want to try it any longer than necessary."

"Good idea."

With classes in progress there was hardly anyone in the corridors, and somehow they managed to look suitably unsuspicious for the people they did encounter to not to look twice at them. In no time they were back in the car, leaving the Mary Brompton College in Cheltenham behind with one less ghost and no trace of their activities other than a couple messed up bookshelves. All in all, a rather successful operation... But even so, Maglor was troubled. The nerve-wracking ghost hunt, Thomas' strange display of power, seeing Curufin… It had stirred up painful memories, and although he had been rather composed during the "exorcism", now it took all his effort to keep his mind on the road and away from treacherous recollection. Thoughts tumbled through his head, and as he caught himself speeding for the third time that trip, he couldn't keep in a sigh.

_No matter how far behind us… the past is always far too close for comfort, isn't it?_

* * *

As soon as Curufin's spirit had vanished, exhaustion had hit Thomas like a brick in the face. He was beat. For all his light-hearted comments about looking dead tired, he pretty much felt like a corpse warmed over himself.

_Yup, karma's a bitch…_

He listlessly stared out of the car window to the rolling Cotswolds landscape, barely keeping his eyes open. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he should draw, that he needed to get the weight of the elf's memories of his chest… but he honestly couldn't find the energy to even take his sketchbook out of his bag.

_Maybe if I close my eyes now and fall asleep, I'll disappear just like the spirits._

Tired or not, the thought made Thomas snort. He would pass up on the afterlife just to see Maglor's face if that ever happened…

_Although… eternal rest actually sounds rather good right now._

He groaningly massaged his temples. A throbbing headache was setting on, making the thought of sleep even more attractive.

_I work my butt off exorcising ghosts for Maglor's stupid deities, and this is my reward? They have obviously never heard of positive reinforcement._

Thomas didn't feel like pondering it. It sucked, but their inability to prevent migraine was hardly the first nor the foremost thing that bothered him about the Valar.

_Gods are assholes._

With the headache clouding his mind it was really hard to have any sort of constructive thought. He momentarily considered talking to Maglor to distract himself, but one glance at the elf told him there was little chance of anything constructive coming from that side either. The Noldo had seemed calm enough back in the library, but now he looked as if he was barely keeping himself together. Thomas closed his eyes in frustration.

_Whatever. Maybe sleep will help._

* * *

A craftsman must know how to fully appreciate any material, from the lowliest chunk of copper to the purest mithril, the brightest adamant to the most common garnet. Fëanor had always believed this to be the basis of his craft. The beauty of a piece was not –should not be- in its resources, but in its creator's ability to do them justice. He wryly remembered boasting once that he could make a cast iron pan more beautiful than the heavy gold and mithril trappings so in fashion among the Vanyar. He still didn't doubt that claim… but the memory now came with a bitter aftertaste.

_I did more justice to the materials in my forge than to the children I sired._

Curufin was far beyond pain now, submerged in the deep healing sleep of the halls… but even so Fëanor barely dared to touch him. His older sons had protectively curled around their little brother, holding his damaged fëa in a soothing embrace. It was almost as if they were shielding him…

"From you, perhaps?"

The dark voice of Mandos vibrated through the marble, only for his ears. Once he would have heard a taunt in those words… Now he only nodded softly.

_It would be no more than I deserve._

"And still you don't…"

The thought was only unfinished in the open. In its resonance, Fëanor heard the rest.

_I have no more right to their affection. That doesn't make any difference._

"You have changed indeed…"

There was an undertone of surprise in the inky blackness of Namo's words… Fëanor closed his eyes with a sad smile.

_Even the hardest stone yields to the right chisel, or so I was once told…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's Apologies)
> 
> First and foremost: thank you! If you are reading this, you haven't given up on this story despite the neglect it has suffered from its author these past months! Thank you for that. I love writing this story and I never meant for this hiatus to happen. I don't really have an excuse, other than the usual (rough patch in RL, bad health, writer's block, etcetera), so… my sincerest apologies. I will try my best to not let this happen again.
> 
> Special Apologies to my amazing translator fish in fridge! Thank you for being patient with me! You're an angel!
> 
> On to the story!
> 
> About Curufin:
> 
> Curufin is both a very grateful and very difficult character to write, mostly because in the way I feel it, he is the only one of the Fëanorians who actually has an unpleasant personality. (An argument could be made for Celegorm, but I've always thought Curufin was worse off.) He is ruthless, self-centered, infuriatingly stubborn and prideful, and full of (sometimes badly) hidden insecurities. I wanted to capture that part of him in full… and still make you feel sorry for him.
> 
> The thing with his name is something I've personally always thought is tragic. I mean, his name is literally determining him completely in terms of his father. He was passed on his father's father-name, and then his mother also named him for how much he resembled Fëanor. It's as if he was never given a chance to be a person of his own.
> 
> The first batch of memories is all from back in Valinor. I imagine the deteriorating relationship of his parents and the constant pressure to be as good as his father were important factors that shaped his personality. The memory of Tyelpë is a trigger for him to fight Thomas out of his head, as he is reluctant to face what he knows comes next.  
> (He wasn't counting on Thomas having the strength to retaliate…)
> 
> The second batch of memories is the kinslaying at Alqualondë and the death of Fëanor. These are also very important memories for Thomas to see, as he has heard only the absolute minimum about Alqualondë due to it being so traumatic to Maglor, and I doubt Maglor went into details on how exactly Fëanor met his end.  
> (Curufin's scream is mental, so only Thomas heard it.)
> 
> The third batch of memories is the whole episode with Finrod, Celebrimbor renouncing him, and his eventual death in Doriath. I chose the scene with Finrod to highlight how Curufin basically sabotages himself and lets his pride get the better of him. He is desperate for comfort, but he hates himself for wanting comfort, and by extent he hates those who offer it to him. (And more complicated stuff like that. He just has a very warped way of dealing with people.) The scene with Celebrimbor is long and detailed because Curufin remembers it so painfully clearly. The line with him smiling in the end is a reference to the book. I kept the death scene short because A) we actually already saw this with Caranthir and B) Curufin is drowning in his own blood. Which is painful and terrifying. At that moment Caranthir found him, he was already long past coherent thought.
> 
> About Thomas:
> 
> For those who love my Maglor scenes, this must have been a disappointing chapter. (No worries, he won't be forgotten!) However, it was important for Thomas to find and use his strength. I wanted to show how much he has grown as a person and as a medium throughout the story. He is still his old angry cynic self, but I think he has matured a lot and grown more confident in his ability to deal with the ghosts.
> 
> About Fëanor:
> 
> YES, another scene from the Halls of Mandos. And yes, that is Fëanor -do I dare say it- showing some humility. I don't think it's out of character. For his sons to have had such incredible loyalty to him, he must have been a real decent father before the darkening happened. And, he has been in the Halls for aeons; I don't think even he would choose pride over healing after that long. He is still himself, just no longer insane. Also, he has gained enough empathy to choose his loved ones over himself without hesitating. (I personally think Namo is incredibly proud of him.)
> 
> (Oh, and does anyone else think that a heap of Fëanorians cuddled together is freaking adorable?)
> 
> Please review! I love your reviews! I usually reply when I post a new chapter (so a lot of people will be receiving a very very long overdue reply tonight), but if I ever go on a hiatus again I will answer sooner :)
> 
> PS: Thank you Sara Petterson for notifying me of the wrongly posted chapter!


	10. The Great Pretenders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Thomas attempt to tackle their communication issues, and a whole lot of very old shit hits the metaphorical fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an april fool's joke, I did actually manage to finish another chapter! ^^

Lying on his back amidst a mess of finished and half-finished drawings, Thomas listlessly stared at the ceiling. He felt depleted. He had spent most of the morning drawing frantically, reassuring himself that he still could, that Curufin's memories hadn't paralyzed him like Elenwë's had. Sketch per sketch he had drawn out the Noldo's anguish, until his hands trembled from sheer exertion and he honestly couldn't put a straight line on paper anymore. Now he just lay on the bed, not physically tired but drained all the same. The result of his feverish art spree was carelessly strewn around him; dozens of drawings and sketches, from hasty to meticulously detailed. Curufinwë Atarinkë, in various stages of completion. Thomas felt there was a bitter irony in there somewhere, but he was too weary to give it much thought. Instead, his mind kept wandering to the memories he had seen.

Shared memories felt… different, usually. Even though he recalled them all in first person, there was always a distinct feel of "otherness" to them to remind him that they weren't really his. It wasn't something he had given much thought before, if only because it had seemed so logical that he would be able to distinguish between his own memories and those he had acquired second-hand. Only… Curufin's memories considerably lacked in this department. Thomas knew they weren't his, but somehow they felt like they could have been. It was, frankly speaking, more than a little disturbing. His resemblance to Maglor's brother may have been rather undeniable, but he was certain that likeness should not run so deep. He was for all ends and purposes a twenty-first century kid, there was no reason why he should be able to easily envision disembowelling someone.

_But then, there is no reason why spirits should think I'm their bloody arse of a father either, now is there?_

Thomas groaned in frustration. Somewhere along the line this whole ghost-hunting situation had turned from merely weird into screwed up on more levels than he cared to count, and right now he was just too worn out to try and make sense of it.

_I should probably just accept that I'm fucked. Maglor's family is fucked up, and the gods are complete and utter fucktards._

He wondered when Maglor would turn up. The elf had looked about as miserable as he had felt the day before -which was saying something- and he would be lying if he said he wasn't somewhat worried for him. That didn't mean he wasn't dreading the strained conversation he just knew they were going to have. For someone who claimed to be a speech therapist, the Noldo's communication skills were sure as hell shabby. Not to mention that he did "awkward" like it was a form of art. Thomas couldn't keep in another groan.

_This shit is going to give me a headache. Again. Fuck._

Maybe it was some kind of fundamental law of the universe that things between him and Maglor had to be awkward. Every time he and the elf became a bit more comfortable with each other, something unexpected would come along, throw a wrench in the works, and send them back to square one on the board of wary attempts at friendship. It was almost too convenient to be a coincidence. At this point, Thomas didn't think he would even be surprised if there actually was some sort of cosmic power behind it.

_Unfortunately, another fundamental law of the universe seems to be that whenever I think I cannot be surprised anymore, things start going to hell like Murphy's Law on meth just to prove me wrong._

Thomas was pretty sure he would have been throwing things around in anger if he hadn't felt too wiped to even lift his head. He resignedly glared at the dull grey ceiling tiles.

_I'm so fucking done with this shit. So fucking done._

* * *

Maglor tiredly leaned against the wall of the elevator as it went up to Thomas' floor, shivering at the cold metal against his skin. A sigh escaped him. He didn't need a mirror to know that he looked bedraggled enough to be a patient rather than a therapist…

_Maybe I should be. Valar know it wouldn't even be the first time._

Over the years he had grown used to quiet nights, to restful sleep and dreams that would fade in the morning light. He had almost forgotten how his past could haunt him… and apparently Irmo had seen it fit to provide a reminder. The night before had been a series of terrifyingly vivid dreams, warped memories interspersed with moments of panicked semi-waking where nightmare and reality blended to the point of hallucination. With the ordeal fresh in his mind it was hard to imagine that he had neglected to cherish every night he didn't wake up gasping for air with the scent of fire in his nostrils and the sound of screaming in his ears.

_You never know what you have until it's gone, eh?_

He wearily closed his eyes, until a sharp ping alerted him of the elevator's arrival. As the doors slid open, the thirty-meter walk to Thomas' room suddenly felt like an insurmountable distance. Part of him wanted nothing more than to get out of the building, drive straight to the airport, get a ticket to Lampedusa or Port-au-Prince or some other distant place where he might be useful, and just... run. And if he had thought it would help even the slightest, he might have given in to the urge. As it was though, Maglor was acutely aware that adding cowardice to his list of charges was hardly going to aid his case. Resigning himself to his fate he made his way to Thomas' room, knocking and entering before he could back out of it.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. With the dread he had felt, it probably should have been something more terrifying than a young man sprawled on his bed, surrounded by scattered drawings… But then, Maglor knew from unfortunate experience that this particular young man hardly needed teeth or claws to be terrifying. Thomas slowly lifted his head when he entered, meeting his gaze with tired, bloodshot eyes. After a couple moments of laden silence he muttered in that oh-so-familiar, lisping Quenya drawl,

"You look like shit."

And all of a sudden Maglor wasn't sure what else he had expected. He half-heartedly smirked.

"Likewise."

Again, silence settled between them. Thomas propped himself up on his elbows and questioningly lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Want to talk about it?"

Somehow, the boy's jaded countenance perfectly expressed his own feelings about the matter. He couldn't keep in a bitter chuckle.

"Honestly? No. But that doesn't matter much, does it?"

Thomas' lips quirked just a little.

"I suppose not, no."

The boy crawled from the bed, and with a notable lack of enthusiasm started gathering the sketches. They were all –unsurprisingly perhaps- of Curufin. Maglor found that once he looked at them, he couldn't look away again. His eyes remained fixed on the pictures, even when the strikingly realistic portraits became twisted with rage and fear and agonizing helplessness. It was sickening.

_Oh brother…_

His mind clouded over with memories, and it was only when Thomas picked up the last drawing and sent him an inquiring look that he realized he had been staring unblinkingly. He quickly blinked a couple times, a little sheepishly.

"Sorry."

Thomas just shrugged. He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to him. Maglor took the place without a word. For a while they just sat there, saying nothing. It was an oddly companionable silence. The razor sharp tension he had expected was surprisingly absent, and in its place there was nothing but a weary acceptance of sorts. They were too tired to fight, so they wouldn't. Not today.

It was Thomas who eventually broke the quiet of their unspoken ceasefire.

"Do I really resemble your father?"

After a slight hesitation, Maglor nodded.

"Yes."

"How?"

How not?

"You're…" Wavering for a moment, he settled for the obvious. "You're like him."

Thomas sniggered weakly.

"Is it an elvish thing to answer questions by rewording them?"

He winced. He hadn't purposefully tried to be evasive, it was just…

"I have no other way to say it."

The boy sent him a lopsided smile.

"It's okay. I… I think I understand it."

He blinked at that.

"You do?"

He had half expected sarcasm, or a tirade, but Thomas only nodded.

"Curufin. He resembled me. I couldn't say how, but I couldn't deny it either. It was really weird." He stared at the window, absentmindedly fuddling with a pencil in his lap. "It was a bit like how I couldn't draw your god of the dead no matter how I tried, despite clearly remembering him. There was something intangible about it."

It wasn't a connection he would have made himself, but now Thomas pointed it out, Maglor had to admit it was indeed a bit like that. Too elusive for description, but no less apparent for it… He softly shook his head, suddenly –ironically so- reminded of his father. Fëanor had done that too; he would make the most haphazard, unexpected associations, and in retrospect they would always seem perfectly evident. It had frustrated many a scholar to no end that they had allowed such simple-seeming insights to elude them... A little lost in thought, Maglor startled when Thomas spoke up again.

"Do you think I resemble your father because of what your gods did to me, or did your gods do that to me because I resemble him?"

_Good question._

"I don't know."

He may have had a dark brown suspicion that what the Valar had done to Thomas was entangled with a great doom of sorts, but for all his experience with great doom and its consequences, he still didn't know how it actually functioned.

Thomas huffed.

"My mother would probably have had something lyrical to say about it. Most likely something about fate, and how everything happens as it should so that everything will be as it must be, or something."

The comment was dismissively casual, but Maglor could almost taste the undertone of bitterness in it. He didn't think he had ever heard Thomas say anything about his mother before… Curiously he inquired,

"Your mother?"

The boy shrugged.

"She was a poet. Critically acclaimed apparently, though you've probably never heard of her. She wrote a lot of cryptic stuff about inescapable fate and the like, very "gothic" or whatever you call that. I'm sure my current predicament would have been right up her alley of inspiration."

"You don't like her work."

For a second, a resentful smirk passed over Thomas' lips. It was gone as swiftly as it came though, and the boy's deceptively even answer betrayed nothing of it.

"It's not really my sort of thing."

Maglor wasn't fooled. He decided to let it lie though. They had enough trouble with Thomas messing in his family affairs without him returning the favour.

"I see."

And with that, they were once more out of things to say. After a couple moments of strained silence, the boy snorted.

"We're really bad at this, aren't we?"

It was a contagious sort of chuckle, and Maglor soon found himself sniggering too.

"I suppose we are."

Thomas dropped back on the bed and let out a heartfelt sigh.

"You know… I kinda have this feeling we should be having a really deep and long overdue conversation, but I'm so used to not talking about all this shit that I don't know how to start it."

Maglor understood the feeling all too well, unfortunately.

* * *

Lying down on the bed, Thomas eyed Maglor. The elf looked pensive and melancholic and didn't seem as if he would be the one to start the deep and long overdue conversation, so Thomas resigned himself to doing the honours.

"The spirits share their memories with me before they pass on."

Maglor stared at him, visibly startled.

_Bam. Shoot from the hip._

He had never explicitly told the elf, but he had somewhat expected him to put two and two together after the whole episode with Elenwë and the painting. From the look he was receiving now though, that hadn't happened. He winced.

"I probably should have told you, but it felt personal and I didn't want to talk about it."

Maglor's surprise turned into a wry smile.

"You told me you picked up some vague flashes after Elenwë… Nothing concrete."

"I lied."

"I figured."

Thomas wasn't sure what Maglor was thinking, which was saying something. The Noldo's face had reverted to an expression of almost dispassionate blankness. He sighed.

"I… I'm sorry."

"You're not."

Thomas wondered if it was silly to feel like casually talking about his second-hand memories was a breach of trust. When he had said it was personal, he hadn't just meant to himself. It felt wrong to share any part of what Maglor's brothers had imparted to him when they were most vulnerable. He shook his head.

"Those memories weren't and aren't mine to share, and I'm not sorry for keeping them from you. But you did deserve to know that the whole memory sharing thing happened, and I'm sorry that I was too chicken to tell you."

Maglor smiled mirthlessly.

"It's… I suppose you're right." He tiredly shook his head. "I've been a therapist for long enough, if anyone should know to respect professional secrecy it's me."

Still lying down, Thomas shrugged.

"You're right too though. It was extremely hypocrite of me to expect that you wouldn't keep stuff from me when I was doing the exact same thing."

Now it was Maglor's turn to shrug. It looked oddly out of place on him.

"I get why you kept it from me. It's hard to be curious after something you don't know exists."

Thomas closed his eyes. For a moment he only heard his own breathing, seemingly loud against the vague noise of people and food carts outside the room. Then the bed dipped next to him. Maglor had laid himself down as well, staring at the ceiling, his hair fanning out over the blue hospital blanket.

"You've seen the kinslayings, haven't you?"

Thomas winced. It wasn't that he hadn't known about the kinslayings before; they had been too important in the history of the Fëanorians for Maglor to skimp on background information. But there was knowing and knowing. He supposed he had known about them in the same detached, history-bookish way one could know about the French Revolution without ever having seen a guillotine from close-by. Now that he had experienced what it was like through Curufin's eyes though… Thomas didn't think he would ever be able to be detached about it again. The memories were too tactile, too close to his own mind. He suppressed a shiver.

"I have. Not all of it, but… enough."

Maglor was eerily silent for a moment; Thomas couldn't even hear him breathe. Then a barely audible whisper broke through.

"I'm sorry."

He swallowed thickly.

"So am I."

The kinslayings weren't the worst memories though, strange as that was. The worst were the most personal ones, the ones that hurt to relive. Alqualondë was, in a way, easier to bear in his memory than Celebrimbor renouncing his father… Thinking about that, Thomas suddenly remembered with razor-sharp clarity something that Celebrimbor had told Curufin.

_And what does that mean, to one who burned his youngest brother alive…_

He had been too caught up in the memory before to wonder at it, but… didn't the youngest brother die in the last kinslaying? Maglor wouldn't have omitted something so crucial to their "mission" as the death of another brother, would he?

_I may not have much right of speech in the omission department, but seriously._

He eyed the elf next to him.

"Now we're coming clean about things… You only have six brothers, no?"

Maglor looked confused.

"Yes?"

"And the youngest were identical twins, and they were both named Ambarussa, and they both died in the last Kinslaying, right?"

When the confusion made place for dread, Thomas knew he had hit on something.

_Goddammit Maglor._

"They were identical twins, and they shared the name Ambarussa, yes. But they were also known as Amrod and Amras. Amrod was the youngest." Maglor's voice was strained, as if it cost him great effort to speak about it. "They were practically joined at the hip, always of a single mind about everything…" He hesitated. "Everything except for the Oath. In the heat of the moment they both took it without hesitation, but after Alqualondë…" His breath hitched. "Amrod regretted everything. He didn't want to come with us, and I think he would have surrendered to the judgement of the Valar right then and there if not for his twin." The Noldo's gaze was strangely unfocussed as he continued to stare at the ceiling, and Thomas couldn't tell if it was detachment or flashback. "Amras convinced him to come along though… but once we landed he refused to leave the ship, saying he felt uncomfortable sleeping on the ground. Amras left him, thinking he would come to his senses and join us at the camp soon enough. But he didn't. He hid himself aboard the ship, hoping he would be able to return to Valinor when the vessels were sent back for Fingolfin's troops."

It took Thomas only a moment to realize what that meant.

"But the ships were never sent back. They were burned."

Maglor pinched his eyes as if to block out the thought of what Thomas so matter-of-factly stated. His voice was eerily flat.

"They were burned, and we all helped. All of us, except for Maedhros. We burned our own brother alive."

_Shit._

* * *

For all the intensity of the recollection, the actual burning of the ships was vague in his mind, a blurred conglomerate of sounds and impressions, censored by his own brain for the sake of continued sanity. Maglor couldn't recall who had thrown the first torch, what his father and brothers had said to him, what commands he had given to the men under him. It was one act of madness he was kindly spared from remembering.

_The rest of my memory is sharp enough to make up for it._

He sighed. Sometimes the gaps in his memory of those early days felt like punishment rather than mercy. After all, he remembered what came after all too well.

"We thought Amras wouldn't make it. He just… stopped. He stopped eating, sleeping, moving… He just sat there, waiting for death." A shiver ran down Maglor's spine as he focussed his gaze on the greyish ceiling tiles again. He had been told that after the burning, when what they had done had become clear, Amras had raged against their father, cursed him, nearly renounced him right then and there. He didn't remember that. By the time he had been thinking clearly again, the rage in his younger brother had already died down, along with seemingly everything else. All he remembered was the way Amras' eyes had been empty, his skin cold, as if his fëa had already departed and his body just hadn't caught up yet. He had been completely unresponsive, lost within himself. He would have died, had they allowed it.

_But we didn't. We couldn't._

They had pulled him through. Maedhros had held him like a child, always keeping him close, refusing to let him give up contact with the living. Caranthir and Celegorm had stoically taken up the task of bathing and cleaning him, not once complaining about the relative indignity of the situation. And he had sung. Songs of healing. Songs of sleep. Old, raw songs of the First Great Journey that were said to anchor the fëa when the hroä suffered grave wounds. They hadn't allowed him to die.

_Perhaps we should have._

"But he survived it."

Maglor turned his head with a start when Thomas suddenly spoke up. For a moment he had forgotten the boy was there, and the sound of his voice –so much like Fëanor- had alarmed him more than it should have. He breathed out slowly.

"Yes. He… He survived."

_Survived is the word._

"He was catatonic for two weeks, and nearly everybody thought he was doomed to fade. But he lived." He swallowed thickly. "No one knew what exactly caused it, but one day he just got up and went on, as if nothing ever happened. He… He never spoke about it again. Neither of us did."

One morning Amras had gotten up, washed and dressed himself, and eaten the food they brought him without assistance. In a couple days he had been back to hunting and sparring as he had done in Valinor, as if his twin hadn't been burned alive and he hadn't spent two weeks in a near-death stupor. The return to normality had been disturbingly sudden.

_It was all pretence, and we knew it, and we were all too cowardly to call him out on it. So much for the Noldor not suffering from cravens._

From then on Amras had insisted on being called Ambarussa, rather than his fathername or any shortened or Sindarinized variant, as if hanging on to the name he had shared with his brother would mask said brother's absence. And in a way it had. In a way they had all pretended that Amrod was still there, by using that name, by never mentioning his death, by never truly mourning him. They had had armies to organize and lands to conquer, and pretending was easier. And after their father's death, after Thangorodrim, there had been more than enough to mourn already.

_567 years of grief stuck in the denial stage. Or should I also count the years up to now?_

He couldn't look at Thomas. He was nauseated. The grey ceiling suddenly felt like falling, or he felt like falling, he didn't know.

_I forgot how much it hurts._

* * *

Maglor's story only came out falteringly, and Thomas had the feeling that there was as much meaning in the silence between the elf's words as there was in the few phrases he managed to wrench out. He had wanted to be angry, or at least indignant, about the Noldo omitting such an important "detail" despite all their talks about honesty and not keeping vital information to oneself, but for some reason he couldn't. Maglor seemed even more shaken by the whole admission than he was… almost as if he hadn't just omitted the death of his youngest brother from the story he had told him, but also from the one he remembered. As if this was the first time he really acknowledged it himself.

_Unhealthy coping strategies do seem to be a bit of a family thing._

Thomas worriedly observed Maglor's tense, pained expression. Grief. And probably long overdue grief, at that. He was bad with grief. It was probably a good thing that he generally worked with dead people rather than their bereaved next of kin (although where Maglor's family was concerned that could be debated) because his sense of tact always seemed to evaporate in the face of mourning. He had been terrible at condolences even before the whole mess with Maglor and the ghosts had started.

_Always the giggle at the funeral, me._

Yet despite his natural inclination towards callous remarks, Thomas was well aware that the elf next to him had no need for gallows humour now. He needed a friend. And bad with grief or not, Thomas liked to think he knew how to be one. He quietly grabbed the Noldo's hand and gave it a small squeeze. He didn't quite trust himself to not stick his foot in his mouth if he were to open it now, but he could at least try to be there for him. No matter how royally fucked up it was that –if he was right in his assessment- Maglor had essentially pretended for years that his youngest brother hadn't died where he had, the elf had been there for him often enough. It was the least he could do.

* * *

In the middle of his thoughts and memories spiralling so out of control that it physically hurt, the unexpected touch of Thomas' hand was a strangely grounding, stabilizing thing. Maglor found himself holding on tight, focusing on it as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. He would have been embarrassed if he hadn't felt so relieved to not be alone.

_Maybe this is how he calms spirits._

The thought passed through his head only momentarily, but in that moment Maglor considered it. He was beginning to understand why his brothers surrendered their very being to Thomas' touch. There was something warm and familiar about it that was almost irresistibly alluring.

_It's… comforting._

Clinging to that feeling, Maglor could feel the storm in his mind quiet down, until all errant thoughts and flashes of memory were safely reined in again. He let out a deep sigh and opened his eyes. It was then that he realized that he still had Thomas' hand tightly clenched in his, and that the boy was sending him pointed looks of concern. He quickly loosened his vice-like grip on the hand and opened his mouth to apologize, but Thomas beat him to it.

"Don't apologize. It's ok. I… I mean… It's ok to not be ok." The boy bit his lip, "If that even makes sense, I don't know."

Maglor found himself smiling weakly despite everything.

"It does to me."

The dryer-lint grey ceiling tiles had probably never been so intensely studied before. Thomas sighed.

"We're two peas in a pod of fucking awful, aren't we?"

Crude, but unfortunately accurate.

"I… guess that's a way to put it."

After a couple moments of charged silence, the boy let out a small snort.

"I probably shouldn't find this funny, but… I kind of thought this whole thing would be more awkward."

"More awkward how, exactly?"

He raised an eyebrow, and Thomas sent him a crooked grin.

"I don't know. Just… worse than this. You do create expectations when it comes to awkward."

He scrunched up his face.

"I'm not sure I want to live up to them."

The boy shrugged dismissively.

"It's all right. I think I'm getting used to it."

Underneath the trivial banter, Maglor felt a hint of genuine amity.

_Yeah. I think we're getting used to each other._

They stayed were they were for a while longer, until a nurse entered to call Thomas to lunch and Maglor had to dish up a story about meditation exercises to explain why they were lying on the bed. But it was good, good enough for now.

* * *

In the bottom of his closet, right next to the silk-wrapped sword of Fëanor, stood a cardboard box that Thomas had very carefully avoided throughout his days at the clinic. Now however, he was staring intently at it.

_It's a box. It's just a box of stuff. What's the worst that could happen?_

He frowned to himself. The worst? Debatable.

_Let's not think about that._

The box had been delivered to the general hospital when he was still in a coma; the people taking care of his father's estate had filled it with things they thought he might want to keep; picture albums, memorabilia, books, undoubtedly also a dusty old cuddly toy and some random keepsakes that wouldn't mean anything to him if he got to see them. When they first started treating him, the box had been a go-to for therapists who thought familiar objects might make him more cooperative.

_Hah. Big mistake._

A smirk ghosted over his lips at the memory. He had wasted no time setting them right on that one… Soon enough the box had been left alone in the bottom of the closet, and there he had ignored it to his best ability. Until now, that is. He scowled at the offending container.

_Damn you Maglor. Damn you._

He didn't want to open the box. He was fine never opening the stupid thing and just ignoring it for the rest of his days. But if he didn't want to end up neck-deep in denial and repressed trauma like a certain Noldorin elf he knew, he would probably have to. Grim-faced, he dragged the box out of the closet, into the middle of the room.

_I faced the Helcaraxë. I am not going to be bested by a stupid box of mementos._

He carefully opened the flaps of the box. The first thing in it was a picture album he recognized without having to open it. The leather binding still showed a crack from the time he had lobbed it against the wall in one of his failed therapy sessions. He carefully lifted it out and put it on the floor.

_All right. I'm doing this._

The next item he could reach was a leather-bound folder he didn't immediately recognize. In worn gold-embossed letters it read "Genealogy of the Ashworth Family", followed by an almost entirely faded imprint of a coat of arms and a Latin phrase he could barely make out. Fidem… Servamus, maybe? Something about loyal servants? Thomas put it aside as well.

_God knows why they thought I would want to have a genealogical record of my dad's family. I never even met my grandparents._

As he had expected, there were a couple things that had him stumped, like an ashtray he couldn't remember ever seeing before and a small vase that, while pretty, didn't really have any keepsake value. There were a couple medals he had won in a junior softball tournament. Old sketchbooks. A frumpy blue fleece rabbit toy. A stack of old report cards. Another picture album. They were all such meaningless, mundane things that Thomas was starting to wonder why he had avoided the box for so long. It wasn't Pandora's box of Doom. It was just a stupid cardboard case that people who didn't know him had filled up with random items that looked meaningful to them.

_Though how anyone can look at an ashtray and think it meaningful, I don't know._

The next thing he pulled out of the box was a small stack of books tied together with a string. Thomas almost discarded it to the pile of "inexplicable random", when he read the first title.

_"Words To Keep", by Linda Feldman._

His mother's last publication. His hands tightened around the stack. Would the people who filled this box have known that she was his mother? Unlikely. Then why… He turned the stack to look at the other titles, and had his thoughts confirmed. "Selected Poems of Jalal Al-Din Rumi". "The Flowers of Evil", by Charles Baudelaire. "Meditations", by Marcus Aurelius. "Being And Nothingness", by J.P. Sartre. Most still had page markers in them, pieces of yellowed paper and faded post-it notes sticking out from the sides, folded corners to mark favourite passages. They had worn covers and cracked spines, witnesses of frequent use by their owner.

_These were her books._

And suddenly Thomas knew why they were tied together, and why they were in his box of keepsakes. Something in his chest tightened painfully. His father must have collected these from his mother's house after she died. And all those years, he had kept them like this, probably somewhere private, and when the people came to clean out the place they couldn't have mistaken them for anything but an important memento. Thomas' hands trembled. It was just a small stack of books, but holding it, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by memories.

_Of all things, he kept her books. Her words._

The only time he had really read his mother's work was when it had been discussed in English Literature class. He still remembered how grateful he had been that his mother had never taken his father's name. That class had been awkward enough as it was. Not only had his teacher been an embarrassingly huge fan, there had also been the dark brown suspicion that most of the poems they analysed in class had been inspired by his parents' divorce.

_Or by swords and severed limbs and murder. She did know how to pick her metaphors._

The thought was almost unexpectedly bitter. Thomas realized with something of a shock that he was angry. He hadn't expected that. Could you be angry with a dead person?

_Stupid question. I should know._

He dropped his head in his hands. He didn't want to think about this now. Or ever.

_Fucking hell._

He irately threw the books aside, uncaring of how the pages creased, and got up from the floor.

_I'm not doing this._

The sketchbooks, the medals, the inexplainable ashtray, he stuffed it all back in the box.

_I can't do this._

His hand clutched the stack of discoloured report cards.

_I'm such a fucking coward._

With a scream of frustration he threw it against the wall. The old elastic keeping them together snapped on impact, scattering the cards over the floor. For a moment he looked at it. Then he dropped back to the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees.

_God-fucking-dammit._

He hadn't felt so powerless since the time when no one could understand him…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Apologies
> 
> Oh, you do deserve apologies! All of you, my translator first and all the people who read and reviewed this story next. I'm sorry. Uni exams happened. Writer's block happened. I'm so very sorry it took me this long. :( :( :( Please forgive me?
> 
> So… about this chapter:
> 
> Thomas' idea that Curufin's memories feel more "his" than the memories of the others (the Helcaraxë doesn't count, because Elenwë gave him those memories on purpose, which mixed up his perception of them) is because they resemble each other in spirit.
> 
> We have some much needed communication between Maglor and Thomas. Thomas finally comes clean about the memory sharing (Which Maglor probably already knew about on some level but always denied, he's good at that), and Maglor comes clean about the death of Amrod. Now, the way he -and his brothers- dealt with that is really kind of fucked up, and I'm not sure I properly captured that. They didn't outright deny that it happened, but they never talked about or mentioned it, and sort of mentally pretended it didn't, as a way of coping. It was part for the sake of Amras, and part because they didn't want to face it.  
> All those years of subtle denial have left a huge mark on Maglor, as he has never actually properly mourned Amrod, and never really found peace with his involvement in his death. (Part of him also thinks that perhaps he could have prevented Amrod's death if he had been in his right mind at the time, which of course only adds to his massive guilt complex.) 
> 
> In my mind, Maglor survives by compartmentalizing things. He would have to, to still be sane after the thousands of years he has lived. Sometimes though, those compartments collapse (Thomas is very good at causing this, usually inadvertently) and his mind gets flooded with the information. 
> 
> Maglor gets to experience a bit of Thomas' gift here. I always imagine Thomas' way with spirits as a telepathic sort of power that essentially affects the fëa. This is what -among things- allows him to relive their memories. While it works best on unhoused spirits (direct contact with the fëa), it can also have an effect on the living, because they obviously have a soul too. Thomas isn't really aware of this though, and his mental comforting of Maglor here was more accidental than anything else.
> 
> We also see that for all his power, Thomas is pretty incapable of helping himself. Witnessing the effects of years of denial in Maglor convinced him to try and properly come to terms with the death of his parents, but obviously, that didn't go as easily as he hoped it would. (wishful thinking much?) There were requests for more Thomas backstory, so I'm trying to comply. I realize that in this chapter it was probably a bit haphazard, but next chapter will hopefully clarify the things I touched upon here, like the complicated relationship he has with the memory of his mother. Any theories/thoughts are welcome!
> 
> Next chapter will also have Caroline, Thelma, and quite possibly a new ghost!
> 
> As always, please do review, I WILL always eventually get to answering them, I swear.  
> If I'm making grave errors (or small ones, feel free to point out!), if you feel my characters aren't in character anymore, if you have a thought or question about the story… just let me know! Your reviews motivate me and help me become a better writer! (Also, they're the greatest show of appreciation I could wish for. ^^)


	11. The Persistence Of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Thomas and Maglor both struggle with old memories, paranormal activity draws them to a dementia ward…

Thomas hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor after his outburst. He didn’t see the point. He was only going to get angry anyway.

_Because that is the way I handle shit, apparently. Get mad and break stuff. Gotta love those survival skills. In a zombie apocalypse I’d probably die first._

He really was no better than Maglor at dealing with these things, and Maglor at least had the excuse of being an aeons old emotionally impaired alien. He, on the other hand, was just being stupid. He scowled to himself.

_They’re dead. They’re both dead. It’s not like I don’t know that._

He knew it well enough, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the thought of it made him feel as if all his organs had shrivelled up and balled together into a big, bitter clump of rage and regret, and he just… couldn’t deal with it. He couldn’t. It was too raw, too much, and thinking about it made him want to lash out and break things. Thomas mirthlessly smirked at the floor. In a tragic way, he supposed it was almost funny. Divinely ordained therapist, unable the treat himself? Sounded like the universe’s idea of a joke to him.

_Just like most of my life._

Thomas had long decided that universe had a terrible sense of humour.

… … … …

Lost in morose thoughts, he only noticed someone had entered his room when they stood before him.

“Thomas?”

Caroline. Her voice drew him from his musings, and he looked up to meet her worried eyes. As his eyes travelled over her figure, he noticed she was still in her work outfit; sensible trainers, baggy jeans, plaid shirt, her auburn curls in a messy bun. She looked… beautiful.

_And I look like the crazy fucked-up mess I am. Wonderful._

“What happened?”

He sullenly shrugged, not sure how to explain it.

“Thought to tackle some clutter. Didn’t work out as I hoped it would.”

It was about as close to the truth as he dared to come right now. Caroline curiously looked at the jumbled mess of books and papers.

“This is all yours?”

Thomas hesitated to answer. Was it his? The books his father had kept like relics? The sketchpads filled with old aspirations? The family tree full of people he had never met? Was that all his? As he silently watched the mess he had made of the room, something his old high school history teacher had quoted once came to mind.

_“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”_

The contents of the box felt a bit like that; souvenirs of a strange and distant place that he could only barely remember visiting. He sighed.

“I suppose it is, yeah.”

After all, there was no one else left to whom those things had even the slightest bit of meaning. He warily eyed Caroline. Part of him had expected to find her looking at him with pity, or annoyance, or perhaps incomprehension… but there was only quiet understanding in her eyes. She shoved some papers out of the way and set herself down next to him. When she carefully took his hand in hers, Thomas was reminded of how he himself had approached Celegorm, back at the dog shelter.

_Like I’m a mistreated pet._

It should probably rankle him, that she would treat him with such gentle caution, but he couldn’t find it in him to worry about his dignity now. Not when this was exactly what he needed. After a few moments that felt like eternity, he found his voice again.

“It’s stuff from… before. You know.”

Before, when he still had a dad and a future and a normal, ghost-and-drama-free life.

“Before the accident?”

“Yeah.”

Caroline reached out and grabbed the closest thing from the floor. It was one of the picture albums, the one with the crack in the front.

“May I?”

Thomas seriously considered saying no. But then, he also seriously considered burning all this stuff at the first opportunity he got and that wasn’t likely to happen either.

_I think I already resemble Maglor’s crazy dad enough without also setting fire to what is left of my family._

He shrugged again.

“Sure.”

The very first picture in the album was a large, formal portrait of a couple with a baby, posing stiffly against the backdrop of a library. His parents. Caroline’s fingers ghosted over the small child in the woman’s arms.

“Is… is that you?”

Who else? His mother had wasted very little time making clear that she would not be having any more children. He detachedly nodded.

“That’s me.”

“You can tell. You resemble your parents a lot.” She smiled. “You were a cute baby.”

“All babies are cute.”

Caroline chuckled.

“Trust me, not all babies are cute. My cousin in France has a baby and it looks like a screaming ginger potato.”

She glanced over the couple in the photo.

“Your parents… they died in the accident, no?”

“Only my father. My mother died 12 years ago. Cancer.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

He shrugged almost before he realized it.

“It was long ago, and I didn’t know her that well anyway. My parents divorced when I was only a baby.” He nodded at the photo. “That can’t have been more than a few months before the papers were signed. My dad got full custody. I saw her maybe once every week, at most.”

Caroline seemed unsure of what to say. She hesitantly looked at him.

“Isn’t… Isn’t that unusual?”

The sick, bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach that had receded with Caroline’s presence returned at full force. It _had_ been unusual. He didn’t think mothers willingly gave up custody of their infant offspring very often. Stories of the opposite, mothers who went to the bitter end to keep seeing their children, were much more common. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t disappear.

_I suppose you also hear more stories of mothers who smothered or shook their kid to death because it drove them so crazy; I should probably be happy she had the good sense to get rid of me before that happened._

He felt Caroline’s hand tighten around his.

“Hey, Thomas. You okay?”

No, he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay at all. But he felt that his English would let him down if he were to try and speak now, so he just shook his head. He stared at the photograph. His father looked so stern there, with his sharp features and his distinguished beard. An imposing, unyielding presence. So unlike the man he remembered as his dad, who had been all laughing eyes and warm smiles and greying temples. Who had always made time for him, always defended him, always listened to him even when he was unreasonable. The photo didn’t capture a thing of all that.

_All that is gone, forever._

As the thought resonated through his mind and his heart clenched painfully, Thomas found himself speaking almost before he realized it.

“My dad. He looks like… like such a strict person there. But he wasn’t, not really. He put on a serious face for work but he was cheerful underneath. Full of enthusiasm, for everything. He loved nature, and going outside. We went on so many trips, camping, hiking, fishing, sailing… just the two of us.” The words just fell out, and once he started talking he couldn’t stop. He had to tell her. Tell anyone, so that the little that was left of his father in his memory wouldn’t be lost. He drew a shaky breath. “And his work. He loved his work. He could talk about architecture for hours and it was never boring. And… and he knew all those silly things, like the stories behind the names of the stars and how the Celts built burial hills and what stuff Roman soldiers carried with them to war. When I was little I thought he knew everything.” His breath hitched. “And he loved my mother. He would have done anything for her.”

She had rejected them both, and his father would still have moved heaven and earth for her. He had loved like that. Hard. Unyielding. His love might have been the only thing about him that was like that. It didn’t matter that she threw it all back in his face; he had never stopped loving her. Thomas felt his anger resurface like bile in his throat, the only clearly recognizable thing in the bitter, confusing tangle of emotion that threatened to overwhelm his mind.

_It’s not fair. It’s just not fair._

“You know, they separated for… for…” Thomas struggled to translate the term. “ _cosi_ _útiutalë_.” His hands twitched in annoyance at his inability to find the English words. “Dispute without con…c-consolation.”

“Irreconcilable differences.”

Caroline seemed familiar with the term. He grimaced.

“I did not understand. They never figh…fought. My dad kept visiting her. He cared for her when she got sick. He was… He was always there for her.”

Thomas clenched his teeth. It was a lie, not understanding. He had always understood. He had understood it so very well, and it had hurt. It had always been easier to blame his mother, to be angry with her for leaving, for dying, for not loving his father and him enough. It hurt less to pretend that he was the wronged party rather than the perpetrator. His whole body shook, Caroline’s caring touch barely making a difference anymore.

_It’s not fair. It’s not. Fucking. Fair._

He buried his head against his knees, looking away from the offending photograph. Something hot and painful burned in his skull, in his chest, in his clenched fingers. Every muscle in his body felt taut like a bowstring. With a strained, trembling voice he forced out,   

“Do… Do you ever feel like you can follow a whole path of bad things back to one single begin?”

“Thomas…”

“Like… y-you can find the exact moment everything went to hell and all that crap w-would not have happened if that one thing hadn’t happened?”

It hurt to breathe, as if every lungful of air only fed the fiery ache inside. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t bring forth a single sound.

_It is me. I’m that one thing. I’m the difference they couldn’t reconcile._

He felt a soft, cool hand stroking his head.

“Sssssh…”

Caroline was still there, a soothing presence on the edge of his consciousness. A part of him wanted to push her away, wanted to hurt and choke on this pain by himself… but the need for relief was stronger than what shred of pride he had left. His frenzied mind focused on her almost instinctively, fixated on the whispered words of comfort and the fingers that repetitively raked through his hair until the burning, suffocating feeling lessened and he could think again.    

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

The calm, measured words cut deep, through the blockage in his throat, through the barricades of denial he had built for himself. A raw sob escaped him.

“Thomas. Look at me.”

He lifted his head from his knees and managed to look at her. Caroline calmly wiped the hair from his face, eyes full of steely determination.

“It is not your fault.”

Hot tears dripped down his cheeks and he didn’t know how to stop it.

“Loimanya ná. Istan loimanya ná.”

She shook her head.

“It is not your fault.”

There was only Quenya on his tongue, but he still understood her, understood the meaning of her resolutely repeated words just enough for them to break things inside. Caroline wrapped her arms around him and drew him close, and he let her.

“It is not your fault, no matter what you think.” She stroked his hair. “You have to believe me. Things just happen, and they’re shit, but it’s not your fault.”

The words hardly registered anymore. Resting against her chest, Thomas’ thoughts calmed to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. He closed his eyes in relief.

“Hantanyet…”

“Sssh…”

… … … … …

Later, after he had calmed down enough to go freshen himself up, and Caroline had returned the memory box and all its contents to its former spot in the bottom of the closet, they found themselves on the bed together. Thomas wasn’t sure what he should feel now. Embarrassment and mortification were high on the list, but the emotional outburst had left him too drained to fuss. Still, he apologetically eyed Caroline.

“Sorry you had to see that.”

She dismissively shook her head. 

“I’m not. You had a tough time and needed someone to be there. That’s not something you should apologize for. You’d do the same for me.”

Of course she knew exactly what to say. Didn’t she always? He weakly smiled.

“Thank you, then.”

A bright smile lit up her face.

“You’re welcome.”

For a moment they just savoured the quiet. Then Caroline remarked,

“I actually came here to invite you.”

“Invite me?”

“Yeah. And Maka too, if he wants to come. Thelma is giving a party next Saturday, and she called me to ask if I could invite you too.” She grinned. “She explicitly promised me there would be no Ouija boards and that her apartment is entirely ghost- and demon-free, so technically it should be safe.”

Thomas didn’t think Maglor was much of a party person, but maybe a party was exactly what they needed. Something to get their minds off things.

“What sort of party is it?”

“Thelma called it a “Balcony Barbeque”. I’m not sure what that entails, but there will probably be meat.” Caroline grinned. “And live music. Just thought to warn you. A lot of Thelma and Christophe’s friends are musicians, and their parties tend to become impromptu band rehearsals. There is usually singing involved.”

“No, that… that’s ok. We’ll come.”

It would probably be funny to see Maglor’s face if people suddenly started to sing. Might ruffle his music therapist feathers a bit. He grinned.

_Look at that. I’m a terrible person._

As he was rewarded with a warm kiss from Caroline, Thomas mentally sent a warning to the Valar. Once was enough; he had no desire whatsoever to get another impromptu exorcism thrown at him while he was trying to enjoy himself.

_Screw me over this time, and I quit. I swear to god, I will quit. Even divinely ordained ghost therapists have right to vacation days._

 

* * *

 

Maglor hadn’t visited Thomas again after the incident that brought up the memory of Amrod’s death. He hadn’t done much at all, really. It was already a small miracle that he had made it home that day without causing any accidents; demanding more of his current mental capacity would have been pressing his luck. He had woken up fully clothed in his own bed, and just… stayed there, for the better part of the following days. Nightmare-filled sleep and miserable insomnia blended together after a while; it was torment either way, conscious or subconscious. Vaguely tracking the progression of shadows on the bedroom wall seemed to be the greatest exertion his mind could handle before his thoughts got the better of him and hurled him into agonizing recollection.

In the back of his mind Maglor knew he would have to get up, eventually. He also knew he would feel better if he got up, if he just cleaned himself and ate something and focused on the things at hand, one thing at the time. Soon enough the maddening memories would recede into the hidden corners of his mind and he would be able to function again. He knew, because he had done it before. He had picked himself up time and again, and this time would be no different. He could lie around and wallow for another week, another month even, but it wouldn’t make a difference. There would never be solace in self-pity.

_As they say… no rest for the wicked._

A tear slid down his cheek. There could be no rest, not for him… but he was so very tired. His fëa ached under the weight of the years his face wouldn’t show. And as the shadows began to melt into the twilight, Maglor silently envied the blessed souls who had been allowed to fade.

… … … … …

It took four days in total before Maglor thought he could face Thomas –and the world outside his bedroom- again. Four days, but after those there was no physical trace left of his breakdown. For the entire world he looked perfectly all right. Seemingly well rested, clear-faced, not a hair out of place… a faultless façade. The elf sadly smiled at his own reflection as he passed by a window. If nothing, he excelled at denial…  

_That particular talent has probably gotten more practice over the ages than my music._

He felt brittle, thin and flat like a cardboard theatre prop. The slightest push in the wrong direction would send him crumbling. It was probably telling that this still counted as improvement. Maglor had found that after spending three days in the same clothes under the same clammy sheets thinking the same miserable thoughts over and over again, improvement became a loosely defined concept indeed.  

As he walked down the familiar corridor that housed Thomas’ room, he detachedly wondered how the boy would react. He didn’t think for a moment that his veneer of normality would fool him. Thomas knew him too well for that. If he wanted to, the boy could probably scrape off his thin layer of ok-ness with a few choice words. Maglor felt…  remarkably little dread at that prospect, all things considered. He knew there were things about the boy he would never get used to, and yet, all the same there was an indefinable sort of comfort in that. He was… familiar. His lisping Quenya, his ever-moving hands and semi-perpetual frown, his ability to be both sharp like a dagger and blunt like a truck in the same sentence… Somewhere along the line Maglor had developed a fondness of the boy, all his unnerving qualities included. If he had to choose anyone on this god-forsaken world to break down on, it would be him. With a smirk he recalled the boy’s words to him on their last meeting.

_Maybe it really is ok to not be ok, around him._

Entering the room with a small knock, he found Thomas on the bed, bent over his largest sketchpad. Oil pastels were spread around him on the sheets, and the boy’s face and hands were stained with a plethora of colours. There was a strange glitter in his eyes and an uncharacteristic smile on his face when he looked up.

“Maglor!”

He soon enough found out what had the boy in such a good mood. The sketchpad held a striking portrait of Caroline Dubois, auburn curls framing her face, plaid shirt unbuttoned just far enough to show the gentle curve of full breasts and the edges of a lacy bra. It was all rather innocent, yet the whole picture held such sexual tension that Maglor felt increasingly awkward just looking at it. He nodded to the drawing.

“Caroline was here?”

Thomas’ grin spoke volumes.

“Uhuh.”

Maglor bit his lip, suddenly at loss for what to say. He had expected a lot, but not… this.

_What am I even supposed to say? Good for you? Congratulations? Don’t get her pregnant?_

“Please use protection.”

It slipped out before he could help it. Thomas abruptly looked up from his work, eyes widened in slight disbelief.

“Wait, what?”

Realizing what he had said, a beet-red blush coloured Maglor’s cheeks.

“Erhm…”

Now Thomas’ face also flushed.

“We haven’t yet… Er… You know…” He awkwardly scraped his throat.

Maglor hid his face in his hands.

“Sorry.”

Thomas shook his head, laughing now.

“It’s ok. Don’t mention it. Glad to know you care.”

He groaned.

“I met your expectations of awkwardness, didn’t I?”

“Above expectation.”

“Wonderful.”

The short silence that fell was quickly broken by a stifled chortle.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“I thought we weren’t going to mention it.”

“Sorry.”

Maglor couldn’t help but chuckle too now. If anything, his little slip had broken the ice quite effectively… Thomas put his sketchpad aside.

“Do you have any plans for Saturday?”

Now he cautiously narrowed his eyes at the boy.

“Why?”

“We’re invited to a party at Thelma’s place. Remember her?”

“I do.”

Maglor had no problem remembering Thelma. Even if her face hadn’t borne an uncanny likeness to that of her forefather Fingolfin, she had caused enough trouble to make their single meeting unforgettable, and a repeat undesirable.

“So, can we go?”

He wanted to say no. He really did. He had zero desire to be among people more than strictly necessary, and a bad feeling about Thelma to bout. But he recalled too well what had happened last time he had tried to dissuade Thomas from something, and right now he wanted to avoid that even more than another meeting with Thelma Dubois-Saroyan. So he nodded.

“Sure.”

Thomas grinned widely.

“Great! That’s settled then. Now, do we have work today?”

 

* * *

 

It turned out they did have work. Maglor had scheduled a visit to a retirement home where both inhabitants and staff had claimed to see apparitions of an “angel”. Apparently it wasn’t unusual for elderly people –especially those suffering from dementia- to see and hear things that weren’t there, but when nurses had noted that the descriptions of the sighting were all eerily similar, and a couple cleaners had claimed to have seen it as well, the home’s management had decided to contact a medium. It was by all means a routine job; Thomas had found that apparitions and spirits that weren’t angry or malevolent were often described as “angels” by those who saw them, and all in all it wasn’t that bizarre that there would be spirits in an old people’s home, as on average more people died there than in most other places. Now he thought about it, with the amount of people that died of old age, it was almost strange that they had never been called to a retirement home before. As they walked through the gates of Care Home “The Willows”, he remarked on it to Maglor.

“Why do you think we’ve never gone to a place like this? I mean, a lot of people die here, so there should at least be some spirits, right?”

 Maglor shrugged.

“I don’t know. Perhaps people who die of old age are less likely to linger. And you read the mail they sent; hallucinations aren’t uncommon among the elderly. If there are spirits, they may never be noticed because those who see them aren’t taken seriously.” He wryly smiled. “Not to mention that not all people are open-minded enough to involve a medium when strange things happen. It’s easier to blame overactive imagination, material malfunctions and careless staff for unexplainable events, rather than paranormal activity. And that goes for all places, not just retirement homes.”

Thomas sighed. That did make sense. It was also… sad. He thought about all the spirits that went ignored like that. If there was an actual afterlife… How many people there would be waiting fruitlessly for loved ones who got lost and never passed on?

_Maybe the dead grieve for the lost like the living grieve for the dead._

He didn’t get the chance to think more on that, as a tall, dark-skinned woman in scrubs approached them at the reception desk.

“Misters Smith and Ashworth?”

Maglor politely nodded.

“That’s us.”

The woman gave them a toothy smile.

“I’m Michelle. I was told to assist you today.”

“Ah.”

As they were led to the elevator, Michelle explained a bit more about the phenomenon they were dealing with. There was a heavy Gloucestershire twang to her speech that Thomas found quite difficult to follow.

_Not that I have any right of speech where accents are concerned…_

“We aren’t sure when it started, to be honest. The personnel here is so used to hearing bizarre stories from the residents that it didn’t stand out at first.” She nonchalantly brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ears. “I’m not much of a believer when it comes to all this psychic stuff, if you don’t mind me saying, but I can’t deny it was kind of creepy when we did begin noticing.”

“How did you notice then?”

“On the dementia ward, the folks had started talking about seeing an angel. Tall, blonde, beautiful, you know. Saying that he was watching over them and stuff. Now normally, these people are quite lost in their own little world, so it was really weird that they were suddenly all talking about the same thing. We didn’t think about ghosts then though, more that something on TV, or maybe a visiting relative or something had really left an impression. But then other residents also started seeing it.” She gave them a knowing look. “Now it’s one thing for the dementia patients to have some weird shared delusion. But then people from the other wards, people who never come in contact with the closed ward, claimed to have seen something too, and the description matched perfectly. Almost as if they had agreed on it.”

Maglor nodded.

“I see.”

“And then the cleaners. Those don’t even really work here, they’re an outside firm. They also saw it. I was told one girl got so freaked she quit!” Michelle chuckled. “That’s when the director called you guys. Said he didn’t want no more of this freaky shit in his clinic.”

Thomas observed Maglor. The elf’s face was a perfect impression of a calm and attentive listener, but he could tell from the way the Noldo’s lips tightened that he was worried.

_He would have told me if there was another one of his brothers here, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?_

“Was there anything strange about the description? Something that stood out?”

The nurse thought about that for a moment when she entered a code in the elevator.

“Well, not really. They all say he’s blonde, although there was one guy who said he had hair like golden fire. Bit on the poetic side, that one.” She grinned. “And he’s tall and glowy, apparently. No wings though.” Just when the elevator opened she added, “Oh, and there was one woman who claimed he was an archangel because he had a sword, apparently.”

Thomas pinched his eyes.

It was probably too much to hope for an angelic looking medieval knight or something…

… … … … …

The dementia ward was paradoxically guarded. Both the elevator and the door had a code, but while the nurse had provided the elevator code, the door code was simply taped right next to the lock. A small laminated card read: “Code = Current Year Minus 22”.  Thomas frowned at it.

“Why have a lock if you put the code on it?”

Maglor looked up in surprise. It was the first thing he had said so far. Michelle gave him another dangerously toothy smile.

“That’s the dementia test. If you can’t figure out the question, you probably have no business being outside this door.”

Right. She looked them over.

“So, do you people need anything else?”

Maglor shook his head.

“Not really. This is where the being was sighted most often?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll go from here and see what we can do.”

Thomas had somewhat expected the ward to be similar to the hospital department he called home; a mixture of bland colours, retard-safe furniture with rounded corners, and dishevelled people aimlessly shuffling around, topped off with the pervasive medical smell of bleach and disinfectant. He wasn’t wrong, per se. The ward certainly met those expectations. The unexpected part was the spectacle of spirits and apparitions that filled the living area. He almost didn’t know where to look first. An elderly lady stumbled through the corridor, aided by an almost translucent girl in a fifties dress. Two children on the floor played a clap game, their forms wavering like old video footage. A man in an old-fashioned suit stood in front of a window, but though his face was illuminated by the sun, there was no shadow behind him. A tiny, wrinkly old woman dozed in one of the recliners, snoring loudly while an identical, slightly shimmery version of herself pensively observed her. In front of the TV a young man in anachronistic army uniform was gazing uncomprehendingly at a football game. Thomas blinked.

 _Wow. What the fuck._  

 

* * *

 

“There’s… There’s so many of them.”

Thomas’ eyes were wide in astonishment, staring at the ward’s living area. Maglor frowned.

“Spirits?”

“Yeah.”

The boy’s voice sounded a little breathless. He himself didn’t see anything out of the ordinary about the ward, but… he could feel it. The whole room seemed permeated by a sense of desolation; something bleak and cold that made his skin crawl with unease. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. These final stages of human decay, watching people gradually lose everything that made them who they were until nothing remained but empty breathing husks… it had always unsettled him. Back when he had worked in facilities like this, he had often wondered what this sort of decay meant for people’s fëar. Was this a sickness of the body, or of the soul? In his most pessimistic moments, he had thought that perhaps they had no more fëa left once they drew their last breath, that this mental rot slowly destroyed it all. 

As he observed Thomas’ awestruck expression, he considered the spirit they had been called here for. If this place was that full of ghosts that had gone undetected, what did that say about their “mission target”?

_Hair like golden fire, and a sword. It’s not particularly descriptive, but…_

He questioningly eyed Thomas.

“Do you see…?”

The boy turned to him with a start, a frown on his face.

“See what? Another one of your missing brothers you neglected to mention would be here?”

Maglor definitively shook his head.

“No. It’s not one of my brothers. I would have told you if I thought one would be here. But…” He sighed. “It’s probably an elf.”

Thomas’ frown turned into a grim smirk.

“Thought so. The sword kind of gave it away.” He sighed as well. “Any idea who it might be, if it’s not one of your brothers?”

Blonde hair had been rare enough among the Noldor to limit the options… but still.

“It might be a cousin.”

He was met with raised eyebrows.

“That’s not particularly helpful. You had heaps of cousins, and despite everything I haven’t memorized your entire family tree.”

Maglor just opened his mouth to respond when a creaky voice interrupted him.

“So old… I feel positively young around you!”

The voice belonged to a smiling old lady with a walker. She wore a clean flowery shift dress and had her white hair in a neat bun, but one of her shoes was missing. He blinked.

“Excuse me?”

Her smile widened, and Maglor felt his unease spike.

“You’re old, you. I can tell.” She brought a finger to her eye. “The eyes. Bright and old. Angel eyes.” Then she turned to Thomas, who seemed to have instinctively taken a step back. “And you, you’re like… that one country with the volcanoes that stopped all the planes! I remember! Iceland! Hah!” Her upper lip curled in a triumphant grin, showing the metal of her dentures. “I do remember.” Then she slowly shuffled away, vaguely staring at something he couldn’t see. He apprehensively scraped his throat.

“That was… strange.”

Thomas shook his head, clearly disconcerted.

“Let’s… let’s just find this cousin of yours and get this over with, right? These old people are creeping me out.”

Maglor couldn’t help but smile, even though the encounter had left him a little shaken too. Only Thomas could find a harmless old crone more unsettling than a room full of disembodied spirits…

 

* * *

 

After the encounter with the strange old woman, Thomas felt uncomfortably exposed. It was almost as if she had seen right through him… And maybe she had. If she could tell Maglor was really old, who knows what else she had seen? The whole Iceland thing had been somewhat unhinged, but still. He shivered.

_Old people are creepy as fuck._

As they walked through the corridor that held the resident’s personal rooms, Thomas silently prayed to whatever gods would listen to please not make this spirit one that wanted to maim or murder him.

_Which may admittedly be hard, given that the guy I unexplainably resemble pissed off pretty much everyone in the First Age._

Seeing that the hallway in front of him was empty apart from a few aimlessly scuffling old people, he added to that prayer to please make this spirit somewhat easy to find. He really didn’t want to scour this entire building… Then the hallway took a turn, and he abruptly stopped.

_Apparently prayers do get heard, sometimes._

A little further down the corridor stood a tall blond, his face pointed at the wall. Even without the period costume he stuck out like a sore thumb among the bent, grey-haired geriatrics.

After a meaningful look to Maglor, Thomas carefully approached the ghost. He didn’t look too unkempt at first sight; his hair hung loosely over his shoulders in thick, voluminous golden curls, his simple pale blue tunic and breeches seemed clean, his sword was safely tucked away in a leather scabbard… but coming closer, Thomas realized the spirit was in worse condition than his initial appearance betrayed. The elf’s eyes were fixed on the empty wall, glazed and absent as his fingers traced invisible patterns on the beige relief wallpaper. He didn’t seem to take notice of his surroundings at all, completely engrossed in whatever it was he was doing. Thomas frowned and fished a sketchpad from his satchel, quickly sketching the spirit’s face. He passed it to Maglor, whose eyes widened in slight surprise at the drawing.

“Aegnor. Aikanaro, or Ambarato. Third son of Finarfin. One of my youngest cousins. Died in the Dagor Bragollach.”

Nodding, Thomas observed the spirit.

_Aikanaro huh… What am I going to do with you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, it's a new chapter! And it didn't take me three months to finish! Waah!
> 
> Shout-out to my translator; Are you ok? Are you still following this story? (I wouldn't blame you if you weren't, my writing tempo is terrible… *shameface*) Please let me know! :3
> 
> So, about this chapter.
> 
> The first part is rather heavy on the Thomas-angst. As promised, you're getting more background info on Thomas' family situation. As it turns out, his poet mother amicably divorced his father when he was only an infant, giving full custody to his father. (This is legally possible, if rather unusual.) We don't know the reasons; perhaps her weak health couldn't handle the care of a child, perhaps she couldn't have any more children and wanted her husband (and best friend) to be free to remarry, perhaps she was mentally unstable, perhaps there were problems between her and her husband that Thomas as a child knew nothing about, perhaps she was divinely doomed to divorce, who knows? In any case, Thomas has a bit *coughs* of a guilt complex about it all. (Don't that sound familiar…)
> 
> The Quenya I used here:
> 
> Loimanya ná. Istan loimanya ná. = It is my fault. I know it is my fault.
> 
> Hantanyet = Thank you.
> 
> And of course, Caroline comes to the rescue. She's a pragmatic, plaid-wearing piece of awesome and Thomas should thank the heavens on his bare knees for her.
> 
> Maglor's mental state is… not very good. When his memories get the better of him, he is literally unable to function. He can get himself together again relatively quickly, but that doesn't take away that he's pretty much falling apart. The ages are taking their toll on him, and he's slowly approaching the point where he won't be able to withstand any more. (Bad… poor Maglor.)
> 
> Then, he gets out of talking about his feelings by doing an awkward. (Is anyone surprised?)  
> You can just see him think "Please don't start reproducing. One mini-Fëanor is the utter limit of what I can take." xD
> 
> And then… we have a spirit! There were requests for Finarfinions, so… Voila! I aim to please. I originally planned to write the whole exorcism in this chapter, and possibly a bit of Thelma's mentioned party, but then I hit 11 pages and was like… "I could totally post it now." I believe most of you rather have a chapter now than wait two more months for the double amount of pages.
> 
> So, we find Aegnor haunting (mostly) the dementia ward of a nursing home, although he has taken occasional excursions to the rest of the building. The description of the ward is -apart from the ghosts, perhaps- pretty accurate. (I remember being all "WTH" about the door code thing when I visited my now-deceased grandmother, which is why I included it.)
> 
> A little about the ghosts in the ward: there is a reason why there are so many spirits in the dementia ward, and why most of them are strangely hazy. Has anyone figured it out?
> 
> Please, please, please review! Let me know what you think! It's one of the reasons I write, I absolutely LOVE hearing what you think of my story. Also, don't be afraid to share any questions or complaints you might have! It may take a while, but I always answer all my reviews. Honestly.
> 
> PS: I am currently under a DOOM OF EPIC PROPORTIONS (Seriously. I'm faced with the study equivalent of crossing the Helcaraxë and my soul is at risk) so I may not be able to write much. My exams start in June and my fate literally depends on them; I may have to quit my studies if I fail. So please wish me luck! Maybe if you send me good thoughts I will have a better chance of succeeding…


	12. 'Tis A Fearful Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas finds out that Shakespeare has nothing on First Age Beleriand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! This is my christmas gift to you :)

Thomas apprehensively approached the elven spirit, mentally going over what little he knew of elves other than Maglor’s brothers. The only non-Fëanorian elven ghost he had ever met had been Elenwë, and he would rather not revisit that experience in any way. As he let his eyes roam over Aegnor though, he quickly became convinced that a repeat of that incident was unlikely. There was nothing frightening or hostile in this spirit’s appearance; if anything he mostly looked… lost. Lost and disoriented, as if he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and hadn’t been able to find his way back since.

_Maybe he really is just lost on the way to the afterlife. Could it be that I finally found a soul whose only doom is a bad sense of direction?_

Thomas wryly smiled at the thought. As if Maglor’s gods would ever make this so easy on him. He was probably in for another heap of unforeseen pain and trauma… The thought didn’t faze him much, strangely enough.

_Come what may, I suppose._

Making a decision, he calmly called out the spirit’s name.

“Aikanaro.”

As the single word seemed to resonate in the corridor, the spirit’s aimless movements halted, and he slowly turned away from the wall. With a distant, slightly unfocused look in his eyes he gazed at Thomas.

“I… I know that name.”

His voice was soft and melodious, but there was a vaguely absent tinge to his words, almost as if he had spoken without fully realizing it. Thomas frowned.

“It’s your name.”

When Aegnor blinked, Thomas thought he could see something shift in the spirit’s vacant gaze. Oddly surprised the elf mumbled,

“It… It is.”

For a moment he just stood there, confusedly eyeing Thomas. Then, all of a sudden he reached out, cold fingers grazing Thomas’ face before he had the chance to step back. The unexpected coldness sent a bone-deep shiver of recognition down his spine, and he almost jerked out of the ghost’s tentative grasp on instinct. However, together with the sudden spike of panic came an oddly reassuring insight. Thomas wasn’t sure how he knew, but somehow he could tell there was no danger in the touch. It was cold, but it wasn’t violent; there was no mental pressure or evil intent. He supposed it wasn’t even really intrusive, once you got over the awkwardness of having someone raptly stroke your face like that.

_The things you get used to in this job. If someone had told me a year ago I would have an actual ghost fondle my face and it wouldn’t be the weirdest fucking thing to ever happen to me, I’d have laughed and called them crazy._

Aegnor traced his features like a blind man, his piercingly blue eyes glazed and faraway as if caught in a dream. Thomas was almost tempted to inquire what the elf was doing and how long he thought it would take, when the blond suddenly gasped and abruptly pulled his hands back. The dreamy haze was gone from his eyes, replaced by surprisingly lucid bewilderment.

“I-It’s you!”

_There we have it._

As the Noldo stared at him in disbelief, Thomas nodded a little awkwardly.

“It’s me.”

_Nice to meet you too. Please don’t murder me._

Thankfully, Aegnor didn’t seem inclined to attack him. Instead he pensively cocked his head to the side, observing him with unhidden fascination. He looked as if he itched to touch him again, but didn’t quite dare to.

“Your soul… It is strange.”

Thomas frowned.

“How so?”

Aegnor hesitated.

“It… It is… like the mingling of the trees.” He made a non-descript gesture in Thomas’ direction. “Bright and… strange.”

 _Now_ that _explains everything. Really. Wonderfully informative._

Thomas fought the urge to sigh. Elves. Never a straight answer. Deciding to focus on the mission rather than whatever peculiarities his soul might have, he met Aegnor’s curious look with one of his own.

“Why are you here?”

The answer was not what he expected. The blond elf straightened himself, a determined glint in his eyes.

“Because I will not go.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t want to pass on?”

“I do not.”

That was a first. Thomas had met spirits before who initially refused to pass on, but never one who had said it so candidly. There was no misunderstanding it. The sense of lost-ness he had gotten when he first laid eyes on Aegnor wasn’t gone, but the elf’s words now were conscious and unmistakably coherent, and he saw no reason to doubt them. Aikanaro Ambarato, third son of Finarfin, truly did not want to go to the afterlife.

“Why?”

Aegnor’s eyes glazed over for a moment, and it was as if his whole appearance became a little dimmer.

“There is nothing for me on the other side. These lands, these… these people, are all I have left.”

“Don’t you miss your family? Aren’t you tired of wandering?”

Thomas knew in the instant he met the Noldo’s eyes that the answer to both his questions was yes. The look the elf gave him sent shivers down his spine. It was so lost, so very _broken_ … and yet there was fire in it. Resolve. He didn’t understand it, but this was not a spirit who had succumbed to pain or madness. Aegnor suffered, because for some reason that was the fate of his choice.

_Just my luck. A masochist._

Thomas sighed.

“Aikanaro. Why do you do this to yourself? You know you don’t have to stay, right.? The Doom was lifted ages ago.”

The blond softly shook his head.

“You… you would not understand.”

“Try me.”

Aegnor looked at his feet, thick golden curls falling in front of his face. When he raised his head again, he looked older and wearier than anyone Thomas had ever seen.

“You never knew them. The Aftercomers; the Secondborn of Eru who you said would supplant us and usurp the lands of our awakening. You never met them. How could you understand?”

Thomas wondered if Aegnor was seriously implying that Fëanor had been racist of a people he had never even met, or if that was just his own low opinion of Maglor’s egomaniacal dad shining through. He grimaced.

“You’d be surprised what I understand about mortals.”

_You know, being one and all._

Aegnor tilted his head a bit, once again pointedly examining him. Eventually he acceded,

“… Perhaps.”

The elf then calmly started walking back to the central living space, leaving Thomas no option but to follow him. From the corner of his eye he could see Maglor follow suit, a worried frown marring his face. He wanted to give the Noldo some kind of sign that he was ok, or well, at least not being murdered just yet, but they reached the communal area before he could think of something. The strange assortment of spirits there immediately seemed to take notice of their entrance, with several ghosts momentarily halting their actions to observe them. Aegnor wistfully eyed them.

“They are too bright all at once. Like… sudden flame.” The wistfulness in his gaze darkened with tormented memory. “Their form is consumed in their fire. And when there is nothing left to burn… they die.” The elf took a shuddering breath and fell silent. Thomas was unsure what to say. He was on unknown terrain here. Aegnor was without a doubt the sanest elven ghost he had ever met, but if anything that apparent sanity only complicated matters. It meant that rather than just subduing and comforting him, he would have to actually convince him the afterlife was a good idea. And since he had no clue what had convinced the blond that it wasn’t, he had nothing to go on. Looking at the sadly staring elf next to him, Thomas felt like bashing his head against a wall.

_Why is it that every time I think I have this ghost therapy thing sort of down, they come up with something new that doesn’t fit the pattern?_

As it was, neither whining nor cranial recalibration was very likely to provide a solution, so he decided on a more constructive approach. He turned again to the forlorn spirit.

“Do you know why there are so many spirits here?”

Unexpectedly, Aegnor provided an actually useful answer almost immediately.

“Their forms are broken, nearly burned out. They are… becoming unmoored. But they haven’t died yet.”

That was an interesting bit of information… Thomas hadn’t known that such a thing was possible; he’d thought you were either dead or alive, not something in-between.

_Even though I’m supposedly something in-between myself. Shows what I know._

His eyes flitted over the assorted spirits and apparitions in the communal living room.

“So… they’re not actually ready to pass on yet?”

The blond shook his head.

“No.”

Well, then there was nothing he could do for them. Before another loaded silence could fall, Thomas spoke up.

“You still haven’t told me why you stay.”

He felt a little bad for pushing the elf, but contrary to a being that was technically dead, he didn’t have all the time in the world. Aegnor shuddered slightly.

“I was a fool. A blind, blind fool. I didn’t want to see it. It hurt, to be with her. And I thought it would… it would hurt less if I left.” He shook his head, almost rhythmically. “Not our fate, not our custom, not our kind… I told myself the same things over and over again until I believed them truth. And it hurt. It hurt and I only wanted for it to be over. For it to stop.” His strained chuckle sounded too much like a broken sob to fool anyone. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Thomas knew Aegnor had supposedly died in a big battle, but this almost sounded as if he had committed suicide. And who was this woman he was talking about?

“I gave up when I should have fought. Fought when I should have given up. Always had a knack of doing that, picking my battles wrong.”

_I can see that. Don’t think you’d still be here if you didn’t._

Resisting the urge to say that, Thomas instead kindly touched the spirit’s arm.

“Who was she?”

For a moment, Aegnor closed his eyes, pinched them shut as if he wanted to keep the question out. When he opened them again, they glistened with tears.

“Andreth…”

The name fell from his lips like a sigh, alive with pain and desperate longing. The sorrow held within it was almost like a physical thing; jagged shards of ice, sharp like a knife to the gut… Thomas pulled his hand back before more could seep through, momentarily shocked at the raw intensity of the emotions. There was so much; love, pain, grief, regret, anger, guilt, hope, bitterness… like a flood it broke down the elf’s calm façade until there was nothing left of it, and Aegnor was lost in his own mind, face twisted in anguish.

With strange clarity of mind, Thomas realized he couldn’t let himself be dragged into the elf’s memories now; it would do more harm than good. He needed to calm him down somehow... Before he could think too much about it, he reached for the blond’s wrists and tightly gripped them, levelling his eyes with the spirit’s vacant, grief-stricken stare.

“Aikanaro. Listen to me.”

_You need to calm down. Get yourself together. Now._

There was an undeniable edge of command in the words that surprised Thomas even as they came out of his mouth, the _necessity_ of calming down somehow contained in them. At first Aegnor shook in his grasp, but soon enough he quieted down, the haze of painful recollection fading from his eyes. Not letting go of his wrists, Thomas spoke up.

“Do you think Andreth would want this for you? Do you think she would want you to torture yourself like this?”

He didn’t know the whole story, but he could put the pieces together. Obviously, Aegnor was one half of a pair of star-crossed lovers, and he was willing to bet that the star-crossed bit of his relationship with Andreth had been the latter’s mortality. A regular Romeo and Juliet, straight from First Age Beleriand… only worse, because if he remembered Maglor’s explanation correctly, humans and elves had different afterlives. They wouldn’t even be together in death. Thomas mentally shook his head. Aegnor’s reluctance to go to the afterlife was starting to make sense… Even though it was pointless. Whoever she had been, his Andreth was long gone, and while she might not be waiting for him in the afterlife, she wasn’t here either.

_If anything, he should use all this determination to bother that Namo guy with his issue. If he’s stubborn enough to stick around for this long, he might also be stubborn enough to get the god of the dead to give his girlfriend back._

The elf looked at him with panicked urgency in his eyes.

“You don’t… You don’t understand! I… I left her. And when Moringotto attacked, I went to war with no intention to return. I was a coward. A fool and a coward! I should have fought for her, and instead…” Aegnor grimaced, trying to wrench himself free from Thomas’ grip. “Let me go!”

Thomas surprised himself by holding on despite the elf’s effort’s to get loose.

_Weird. Either I’m stronger than I think, or this elf is weaker than he looks._

He fixed his gaze on the elf’s wide eyes.

“And instead you went to your death, wanting for it all to be over.”

The stern words stirred up from deep within his mind, tumbling out of his mouth before he could overthink them… but they hit the sore spot just right. Aegnor cringed.

“I just… couldn’t bear to be without her. I didn’t understand what I gave up, what I did to her… She would never have had to be alone, if I had done right by her. I… I was so selfish…” Tears streamed down his face. “I hurt her. And when I understood, it was too late.”

Thomas felt he was getting through to the elf. He pushed on.

“You probably hurt her, yes. But that’s water under the bridge now. I ask you again, do you think she would want to see you suffer on her behalf? Was she that kind of person?”

Aegnor looked away, blond curls falling in his face. When he spoke again, his voice was almost inaudibly soft.

“I… sometimes I don’t even remember her. She has become a shadow in my mind. I lose myself trying to recall the tilt of her nose, the sound of her voice, the curve of her lips. I… forget. I have forgotten so much already. There are…” He faltered. “There are so many faces. Sometimes I think I see her, but I am never sure. I… If I go, I will forget what little I have left of her. Lose her forever. Here, I can… I can try to remember.”

Thomas loosened his grip on the elf’s wrists, holding them only gently now. He shook his head.

“Staying here won’t help. On the contrary even. I’ve been told that being unhoused is bad for your being. It messes with your mind, twists your thoughts and memories. The longer you stay, the worse it gets.”

_To the point of forgetting your own name, if you recall that happening._

Aegnor’s shoulders slumped.

“I… I don’t know where to go. Not anymore.”

He looked so lost… The helplessness in the spirit’s voice told Thomas that he had won, for now.

_One battle isn’t the war though._

He soothingly stroked the elf’s slender hands.

“I can help you remember. But you can’t fight me. Ok?”

Apprehensively, Aegnor met his eyes.

“Will… will it hurt?”

Biting his lip, Thomas hesitated. From experience he knew it wasn’t pleasant by any means… but Aegnor’s look was like a silent plea for mercy, and he just didn’t find it in him to be harsh. He sighed.

“It might. But in the end you’ll feel better, and nothing will hurt anymore. I promise.”

The elf’s eyes widened at that. He visibly shivered.

“A-Alright. I won’t fight.” 

… … … … …

_(The first time, she was like the sun.)_

_It was hot, far too hot for Dorthonion this time of year. The Beornings’ buildings trapped the unusual heat with the same efficiency as they normally contained the warmth of their great hearths. The sun had yet to fully rise, but the air was already thick and humid, cloying to his skin like a discomforting garment... He hadn’t thought being too warm would ever pose a problem for him again, but here it was. Even so, it was better outside than inside, and the further he walked into the shadowy hills, the more bearable the temperature seemed to become. Once the settlement was out of sight, he looked up. The sky was a deep purple rather than black, with tinges of pink and red courtesy of the approaching dawn._

_(He remembered the first time he saw the sun rise. He remembered being both overjoyed and terrified, and blinded, blinded by this new, bright thing that hurt his eyes and gave colour to a world he only knew in twilight shades.)_

_Lost in deep reverie, he didn’t realize anyone was approaching until the rustling of bushes and clearly audible footsteps startled him from his thoughts. Not exactly the cleverest thing to do when out in the wild on your own… but when he turned to see who had managed to sneak up on him, all thought of his own carelessness faded from his mind. On the path up the hill stood a slender human girl. The first rays of morning sun were caught in the fall of her brown tresses, and the slightest gust of wind rippled her white shift dress, subtly highlighting the gentle curves of the body beneath it. She smiled, and something inside him lurched, profoundly alarmed at how a simple facial expression could be a thing of such beauty._

_“Good morning, Master Elf. Have I disturbed you?”_

_For a single moment, he couldn’t have formed an intelligible answer for all the wealth in the world._

_(She was like the sun, and he was as he had always been in its countenance. Blinded.)_

_… … … … …_

_(She spoke with fervour of the future and thought beyond the span of her life, and her hunger for knowledge was only matched by her desire to put it to good use for those around her.)_

_He had always thought that humans were merely transient, fickle creatures; strategically important as the ever-growing group they were, but insignificant on a more personal level. Their children grew to adulthood in the blink of an eye, and in just another they withered and died, like flowers in a field. How could their beings have any substance, when given only such a short time to learn and grow?_

_He had disregarded them. Never bothered to distinguish them as individuals, to hear their stories, share their dreams, learn their names. And he saw now, he had been mistaken._

_(Her name was Andreth. He didn’t understand what insight had made her parents name such a passionate, creative, wildly curious spirit “Patience”, but that was her name. Andreth. He loved the way it sounded.)_

_Maybe his prejudice had been a hope of sorts. A hope that Eru would not let things of true worth and beauty waste away and fall apart like that._

… … … … … 

 _(It was said that the gift of true_ Sight _ran in his branch of the family.)_  

_“I’ve heard you’ve taken an interest in Boromir’s oldest daughter.” Keen cerulean eyes met him over the rim of a tome on local wildlife. “I thought you didn’t think much of the Secondborn?”_

_He frowned._

_“What made you think that?”_

_Finrod rolled his eyes._

_“You don’t exactly sing their praises when we’re in private. Not to mention that I usually have to bodily drag you to the common rooms to make you spend any time among them. You can imagine my surprise when I heard you now voluntarily go on walks with one.”_

_He shrugged at his brother’s shrewd glance._

_“Maybe your lectures on humanity’s many virtues have finally gotten through to me. You should be glad.”_

_Finrod put his book away, an oddly grave look on his face now._

_“I would be glad if you showed interest in humanity as a whole, yes. But why just this girl?”_

_“Weren’t you the one who said I had to learn to appreciate them as individuals?”_

_“You’re avoiding my question.”_

_He shrugged._

_“She has a generous, caring spirit, and a fiercely bright mind for one so young. I didn’t know humans could be like that. It’s… intriguing. You’d like her too, I think.”_

_Finrod seemed to think that over. Lightly tilting his head, the blond subjected him to an uncomfortably long, scrutinizing look._

_“Are you sure that is all there is to it?”_

_The mild suggestion in his brother’s voice made his insides twist._

_“You can’t be suggesting what I think you are!”_

_“Well, you tell me.”_

_It must be anger, this painful feeling inside. Revulsion, even. It had to be. He indignantly shook his head._

_“Of course it isn’t anything like that. She’s a child, for Valar’s sake!”_

_Finrod grimly held his gaze._

_“And mortal, brother. Remember that well. Nothing can come of it.”_

_(It was a trait that had obviously passed him by completely.)_

… … … … … 

_(The last time was like the very first time.)_

_It was a moonless night. Every once in a while there were nights like that, nights when the moon wouldn’t rise and only the stars lit up the world. He had never grown used to them, never stopped feeling shivers of phantom cold at the sight of the black expanse over his head. The darkness was ever heavy with memories. He didn’t like it. Yet now, it was heavy with something else too… a sense of anticipation, tingling on his skin like the air before a thunderstorm. Andreth walked before him, with the familiar ease of one who knows the path. She sent him a smile over her shoulder._

_“We’re almost there. It’ll be worth the trip, I promise.”_

_(Grandfather Finwë used to speak of the awakening at the waters of Cuivienen, sometimes. Of warm darkness that felt like shelter, and eyes so new that the stars alone were enough to brighten them. Of seeing,_ feeling _everything for the first time, without words to understand it all.)_

_He followed her without question, until the trees receded and he found himself looking at something so stunning it took a moment before his mind caught up with his eyes. In a clearing amidst the pines lay a lake, so smooth and still it formed a perfect, gleaming mirror for the heavens above. Deep blue and sprinkled with starlight, it was as if an iridescent piece of night sky had fallen to the forest floor. For just an instant he was lost in its splendour… and then he saw Andreth, standing at its edge. She was like a vision in a dream, a divine apparition with a smile on her lips and the stars caught in her tresses. Her dress was stained with mud at the bottom, her hair was tousled from their trek through the woods, and her cheeks were still red with exertion, but… she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It struck him like lightning. Like paralyzed, he was incapable of doing anything other than staring, and desperately soaking up the sight of her. His blindness fell from his mind like a veil, and he could no longer deny the truth._

_(He had no words then, no verbal expression for this understanding that bloomed in his soul and overwhelmed his mind and clenched his heart in an iron fist. He could only_ feel _it.)_

_The words she had wanted to speak had died on her lips when she saw the way he looked at her, and now they just stood there, eyes locked, so close it almost hurt not to touch. The unspoken emotion between them was so tangible it nearly formed a barrier… He reached out anyway._

_They kissed, and it was as if the darkness folded around them like a cloak, and the whole world ceased to exist outside of their embrace. There was nothing but Andreth; filling his mind, warming his soul, saturating his senses... He never wanted to let go. He knew deep inside that as long as he held her, everything was all right._

_(But he had gone and let the world back in, and now nothing would ever be all right again.)_

_… … … … …_

_(He was blind again, like an animal wounded, forever running and fighting and struggling in anguish, against friend and foe alike.)_

_The mountains were alight with liquid fire, and the air was thick with devastation and the black, putrid smoke of burning pines. The bells of alarm rang with shrill urgency, mustering the troops… but when he met his brother’s eyes, he knew it would be for naught._

_(He was mad, and he knew it. They all knew it. He could smell the insanity on himself.)_

_The end was a haze of ash and agony. They fought against the flood of enemies, back to back, surrounded, hopeless. Angarato was the first to fall. He could feel him seize up against him when an orcish blade was rammed into his side, heard the choked, broken cry before his brother lifelessly fell to his knees. He couldn’t even feel grief; the pain was already so all-pervading that he barely felt his wounds or the blades that pierced him. Only when suddenly the strength seeped from his limbs and he could no longer stand, could no longer hold his sword, he fully realized he was dying. Everything just… hurt too much. Darkness oozed into his mind, swallowing up what thoughts he had left. He didn’t struggle._

_(As he lay there, he remembered her smile. It might as well have been the final blow.)_

_… … … … …_

Thomas came out of the memories with a start, heart pounding in his throat, mind buzzing with foreign thoughts and images. He was still holding Aegnor’s hands, but when he looked up at him, he noticed to his satisfaction that the elf’s expression was peaceful, if somewhat absent. That was always a good sign. A single tear trickled down his cheek.

“I… I remember now. You m-made me remember.” He shuddered. “Thank you.”

His voice was weak now, almost a whisper, but Thomas could hear the astonished gratitude in it. He shrugged, comfortingly squeezing the elf’s hands.

“You’re welcome.”

It just passed through his mind that this had to be the first time he had performed an exorcism with minimal body contact, when Aegnor suddenly freed his hands and pulled him into a tight hug. Thomas had to contain a slightly inappropriate chuckle.

_I just had to jinx it, didn’t I?_

A little awkwardly, he patted the elf on the back.

“It’s ok, you know. You can go now. I’m sure there’s people waiting for you.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “And try to pick your battles a bit more carefully next time.”

At that the blond let go of him, a sad smile on his lips.

“I’ll try.”

Next thing Thomas knew, the spirit had faded into thin air. But the fading was not a relief, this time. Aegnor’s presence had forced him to focus on the being he was trying to help rather than his own views, numbing his own feelings about the matters at hand. Now that the elf was gone, everything he had held back flooded his already throbbing head. How he wished someone had told Aegnor’s self-righteous prick of a brother that finding another race delightful as long as they don’t marry into your own is just as racist and prejudiced as whatever Aegnor used to think of humans. And that someone had told Andreth how much Aegnor loved her because the idiot had never gotten the words past his lips himself, and for all he knew the girl had doubted it the rest of her days. And most of all, he wished someone would kick whoever was responsible for the whole separate afterlife shit because that was just pointlessly unfair. What was the deal with that anyway? Dead was dead, right? Fucking Valar. Thomas clutched his head and groaned. He really needed to let off some steam or he was just going to blow apart…

_If ghosts don’t fuck me up, I do it myself. I’m fucking hopeless._

 

… … … … …

 

Watching Thomas from a safe distance, Maglor had seen that everything seemed to go smoothly this time. There was no tension in the air, no frightful currents of power sizzling around the boy, and when at last he saw the unclear figure of his cousin, warmly hugging Thomas with a relieved, grateful smile, the Noldo finally dared to breathe easy. Maybe this would be the one time they got out unscathed… With how unsteady he still felt, it was all he could hope for.

However, as soon as the spirit faded, something seemed to happen to Thomas. Maglor couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but as he approached the boy, he sensed something was not right.

“Thomas? Are you ok?”

Still turned away from him, the boy slowly shook his head.

“Do you have my bag?”

He sounded strangely hoarse.

“Thomas, look at me.”

“I need my pencils. No, crayons. Bad surface for pencils. Crayons. I brought them.”

It sounded as if he had effort stringing a sentence together… Well and truly worried now, Maglor gripped the boy’s shoulder and put a little more force in his words.

“Thomas Ashworth, will you look at me?”

His breath hitched when Thomas turned around.

_Every time I think I’m used to this…_

His eyes were bright; too bright for a mortal. They shone with something so disturbingly intense it sent shivers down his spine. Maglor knew this look, this… madness, all too well. As the memories bubbled up from under his provisory layer of sanity, he suddenly had to suppress a very real urge to just run away. Meanwhile, Thomas managed to look pleading, which was a real feat with those eyes like burning embers.

“Please. I… I need to do this.”

Wordlessly, Maglor handed him his bag. He didn’t know what else he could do. Start a fistfight in an old people’s home? Thomas rifled through it quickly, grabbing a large box of oil pastels. However, rather than taking his sketchbook along with it, he turned to the white walls of the living area, crayons in each hand. The Noldo closed his eyes in quiet exasperation.

_I wonder how we’re going to explain this one to the nurses._

When he opened his eyes again, Thomas had already outlined the features of two life-sized figures on the wall, and was working frantically to detail them. With both hands at once, Maglor noted with rising unease. The furious drawing quickly enough drew the attention of both the residents and the department staff… but while most of the elderly were content to just fascinatedly watch Thomas’ work, nurse Michelle clearly wasn’t of the same appreciation. Stomping indignantly out of the break room after catching a glimpse of them, she yelled,

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing there!?”

Maglor suspected that he could have fired a cannon right next to the boy’s head without him paying him notice now, so an angry lady nurse with a twangy accent was hardly going to make much of a difference. If she were to physically interrupt him though… In the spirit of preventing fistfights in old people’s homes, he intercepted Michelle before she could accost Thomas.

“Excuse me madam, but it is best if you don’t interrupt him. He is… drawing a sigil to keep the spirits from re-entering the building.”

_I have no idea where I get this bullshit._

The woman nearly growled.

“I thought you were gonna wave around with a bush of burning sage and bless the rooms or something, not draw on the bloody walls! I was supposed to keep an eye on you nutters, what am I going to tell my boss now?”

In his most polished, soothing voice, he said,

“Of course it would be in your advantage to keep the sigil, but I don’t think it will be difficult to clean off.”

This was an old people’s home after all; Maglor had worked in too many of those to think crayon was the worst thing those walls had ever seen. Lacing the slightest bit of persuasive power in his words he continued,

“In any case, it would be best if you allow my colleague to complete the ritual. Disturbances at this point could cause a new spirit infestation.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow, but all she had in retort was a simple,

“Oh.”

For a moment it seemed as if she would follow up with a scathing reply, but clearly she had no inspiration. Maglor dared to breath again.

_Crisis averted._

Meanwhile, Thomas’ drawing was quickly gaining that stunning resemblance so characteristic to his work, despite the circumstances he was making this one in. Even Michelle thought it intriguing enough to put her righteous anger aside for a moment. Watching the boy, her eyes went wide.

“How is he even _doing_ that?”

He shrugged.

“Honestly, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

As they watched the impromptu mural take shape, Maglor considered what it depicted. His cousin and a young human woman, raptly staring at each other. He wondered who this girl was, for Aegnor to have looked at her with such tender reverence. Objectively she was no remarkable beauty, and yet somehow, the drawing captured a loveliness that gave her something deeply compelling… Before he could think further on it, Thomas dropped the crayons from his hands and stepped away from the wall, giving them a clear view of the full work.

The picture was mostly in greyscale, and large parts of it were still sketch-like, courtesy of the medium and the speed at which Thomas had been drawing… but Maglor still couldn’t quite look away from it.

_It’s hopeful._

It radiated hope. Optimism. Maglor suddenly felt a warm fondness for the boy who now looked at him with a dazed grin and –thankfully- a pair of perfectly normal human eyes.

_I guess… we can use a little more hope in our lives._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> There are no words that can express how sorry I am it took me this long. If anyone is still reading this, I honestly apologize. I could come up with excuses, but the truth is simply that I had a writer's block and no motivation to write, and I kept postponing it. Also, I'm writing my thesis at the moment, so that also put extra pressure on me. In any case, here is the new chapter!
> 
> Extra thanks to my translator fish-in-fridge, who not only kept following this story, but also made glorious fan arts for it! There is new art for chapters 9, 10 and 11 on my AO3 profile, please go check it out and shower her with appreciation! ^_^  
> Extra thanks as well to Sara Petterson/Rogercat, who is one of my most loyal reviewers both here and on AO3. *applauds* You're awesome :)
> 
> Now, about the story.
> 
> About the Title:   
> The title, "'Tis A Fearful Thing (to love what death can touch)" is taken from a beautiful poem by Yehuda Halevi. It's so fitting to the story of Andreth and Aegnor, I couldn't resist temptation. Look it up, it's worth it!
> 
> About Aegnor and Andreth:  
> They are a couple close to my heart, these two. I really hope I did them justice… Aegnor loved Andreth desperately, but he grew up with an entirely different way of looking at the world, and he didn't manage to overcome those boundaries of race and culture.  
> Humans grow up with an innate sense of having only limited time. So, they grasp what they can have of life and love and cherish every moment. Being in a situation that is life-threatening (like a war) only makes them more aware of the necessity of living every moment to the fullest. Elves on the other hand, respond to a life-threatening situation by doing the opposite. They don't do temporary; if they know it isn't going to last, what's the point in doing it at all? In addition to that, there was the mortality issue. In a way, Andreth was already dead to Aegnor, even when she was still young. Her life expectancy was nothing compared to his. What meaning could those few years he might have had with her have, when seen against an eternity alone after her death? Only after his own death, he understood what he had given up.
> 
> About Thomas' Knowing of Separate Afterlives:  
> I mention Thomas having heard from Maglor about the separate afterlives, but it is never explicitly mentioned in the previous chapters. I assume that it's something Maglor revealed to him in one of their first conversations. When Thomas found out he was divinely ordained to help people to the afterlife, I can imagine the question "what do you know about this afterlife business" did come up. The separate afterlives thing was fairly common knowledge among the elves (eventually), and Maglor had no reason to hide it from Thomas.
> 
> About Thomas' Mural:  
> Just like that time with Elenwë, the transfer of memories was intentional. That mainly means Thomas received a lot more information than when he has to fight for every scrap of memory (like with Curufin) or the spirit's mind is so broken their recollection is all messed up as well (like with Celegorm). Simply the volume and depth of the memories is enough to bring about an overload that needs to be siphoned out. On top of that, this story really hit home with him. The thing is, Thomas isn't all that sure of a decent human afterlife. Maglor couldn't tell him anything about it, and what experience he has had with the Valar isn't exactly inspiring faith in him when it comes to them giving a shit about humans. But confronted with the story of Aegnor and Andreth, he chooses to hope. A deity who would discard a soul who loved and was loved so fiercely, has to be either evil or uncaring. And if he believes that of the Valar, what's the point in what he's doing? All this is in the back of his mind when he makes that mural. It's overflow from Aegnor, but it's also his own struggle to hope for the best.
> 
> About What the Fuck is Happening to Thomas:  
> What do you think yourself?
> 
> About the Spirits and Apparitions in the Living Room:   
> Some people guessed it, but the spirits Thomas could see in the old people's home weren't actually fully disembodied. Dementia is the unmooring of the fëa from the hroä; the body is breaking down, and as a cause of that (because human fëar cannot remain bound to a gravely injured or worn out body) their fëar slowly lose their grip on it. This story was built on a strong link between soul and memory, so it seemed like an interesting idea to explore.
> 
> Some Thoughts of my Own:  
> Andreth means Patience. Aegnor's fathername Ambarato means Champion of Doom. I want to live in a world where this is hopeful foreshadowing.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Reviews are love and Silmarils! ^_^


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